There is no title
by mylovelymindpalace
Summary: A collection of unrelated one shots. Each story is a fill for a submitted prompt word/one sentence prompt.
1. Kawaii

The word was "Kawaii" courtesy of the lovely maycakaia.

Molly entered the flat, arms laden with shopping bags. "Sherlock!" She called up the stairs. She had left her husband and their five year old daughter Maeve home alone. She thought she could hear the sounds of a children's show on television coming from above her. "Sherlock!" She shouted again, louder this time. She waited a minute and sighed. No help was coming from that area. Molly pulled herself up the stairs to the flat, her seven months pregnant belly not aiding her any. She pulled open the door to the flat, ready to give her husband a lecture on the proper treatment of pregnant wives, but all she could do was chuckle. Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor next to a stuffed Winnie the Pooh and a koala. The koala was wearing a little suit jacket and a bow tie and Pooh had a silvery play dress pulled over his head. But Sherlock was the reining queen. He had shimmery clips shaped like butterflies scattered through his curls and a particularly fluffy pink boa draped around his neck in place of his usual scarf. His little daughter stood behind him with her pink plastic teapot, delicately pouring "tea" in his matching cup. "Thank you madam." He said gravely. The little girl giggled and moved on to the other guests. She reached for the plate that was perched precariously on the sofa and gave Sherlock a sliver of cake. "Look! Mithis Hudthon made cake." She said, displaying the desert proudly. Sherlock hid his face behind the stuffed koala. "Lovely." He said, his voice a funny falsetto. "No daddy." The little girl giggled. "He'th a boy!" "Forgive me sir." Sherlock said to the koala. Maeve nodded, satisfied with Sherlock's apology to the plushy. The little girl caught sight of her mother standing previously unnoticed in the door way and ran giggling to her. "Mommy! Mommy! Daddy is the pretty queen and we're having tea." Molly giggled and allowed the little girl to tug her to where Sherlock was seated. "You can be here." She said, pointing at an empty spot next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked over at Molly and she couldn't help but laugh. He was coated in glitter, the remnants of an earlier art project. "Well don't you look handsome." She said, leaning over to kiss the pouting detective. "No Molly, Mr. Koala is the male, he looks handsome. Winnie the Pooh and I are supposedly the females. According to Maeve we look 'kawaii'. I am going to assume that is a phrase she learned from you. I gather it means cute." Molly untwined the boa from Sherlock's neck and wrapped it around her own. She interlaced their fingers and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Well I think you look wonderful either way." She said.


	2. Massage

1 word prompt courtesy of the lovely biggstnerdyouwillevermeet. The word was "massage". Hope you like it.

LadyInglorian- Thanks! Glad you liked it!

Rocking the Redhead- I love Daddy Sherlock too. It is some of my favorite to write.

Sherlock was long overdue for a massage. There was tension between his shoulder blades and an insistent knot in his back. He considered asking John, but that had turned ugly the last time. Lets just say the doctor had been angry over an experiment involving human eyes, strong acid, and the microwave, and had over-zealously cracked Sherlock's back. The detective had been incapacitated for three days. Now he was sitting in the morgue, leaning over a microscope with a pain in his shoulders that wouldn't go away. "Do you know how to give massages Molly?" He asked the pathologist, who at this moment was leaning over a tissue sample. "Well, um, actually yes I do. I took some massage therapy training in university. Why?" Her stammer had lessened recently, but Sherlock could hear the telltale signs of it's returning. "My in between case tension has returned, and I refuse to ask John. My usual masseuse is completely booked for the next two weeks. I would appreciate your assistance." Molly stared at him, dumbfounded, for a second before nodding her head. "Of…of course Sherlock. Happy to help. Why don't you lay on one of the slabs. It's a little morbid, but it should help me be able to reach." Sherlock nodded and stood from his seat in front of the microscope. He reached for the buttons of his white dress shirt, popping them open in quick movements. He left the shirt and his jacket on a chair before laying face downwards on a slab. "Molly?" He asked, voice slightly muffled. "Oh…yes, coming." She said. He heard her footsteps approaching the slab timidly. "Um, where do you need help?" She asked. "In between the scapulae there is a large amount of tension, also a large knot in the lower back, near the hip." He lay in anticipation. She hesitated a moment before he felt her delicately place her hands on his back. Her fingertips gently probed the exposed muscle. He heard her give a sigh of exasperation and felt her hands knead the muscle between his scapulae, using the thumbs to press out the tension. She walked around to his head, placing her hands at the base of his neck. She leaned over and pushed the heels of her hands down his back. She repeated the process a few times. She moved the wispy curls at the back of his neck and placed her hands around it, rubbing her fingers in small circles up and down. He gave a small moan of appreciation. He felt her hands stop momentarily before continuing. She moved so that she was standing alongside his hips and began to rub at the knot that had formed there. He was enjoying this. "If you decide to leave pathology, massage is a good career option for you." He said, turning his head to get a glimpse of the small woman next to him. Her face was scarlet, which was odd. "Thanks. Glad I could help. Do you need anything else?" She asked. By this point she had finished rubbing at the knot and was moving to go back to her work. "Would you crack my back?" He asked. Ever since he was little he had loved having his back cracked. Molly's face turned an even more brilliant shade of red. "Sure. " She squeaked. "I…uh… Can't exactly do that with you on the slab." Sherlock nodded and slid off the slab. He stretched full length on the floor and he felt Molly settle beside him. He could tell that she was indecisive for a moment, and then she swung her leg over him, straddling his hips. She leaned forward and pressed her fisted hands into his back on either side of his spine. He grunted as the vertebrae popped into place. She slowly moved forward, pressing each bone where it needed to go. She was about halfway up his back when the morgue doors opened quietly. "Molly? Sherlock?" John called. Neither of the people on the floor heard him, and the detective groaned with pleasure as Molly pulled another bone into it's correct position. The poor doctor's eyebrows arched steeply upwards when he caught sight of the prostrate detective with Molly straddling his back. "Right…well I will, uh, leave you to it. Whatever it is. Umm, yes, bye." He said, beating a hasty retreat. Molly looked up in time to see John's retreating form. She heard what almost seemed like a giggle from Sherlock. "Do continue Molly." He said.


	3. Moving in

VERY fluffy one shot for the prompt "Moving in" courtesy of the lovely thesignofholmes. Thank you to everyone who has left reviews.

Ever since she was little Molly had dreamed of a home and children. She had always planned on a career, but the idea of marriage and kids appealed to her greatly as well. And now she had the marriage and the home. She and Sherlock had been married 6 weeks, four of which had been spent on an incredibly long honeymoon. For the last two she had been staying at her old flat as Sherlock had tracked down the final member of Moriarty's network. And now, finally, she was moving to Baker St. Molly felt Sherlock rest his arms around her waist in a rare unprompted display of affection. She leaned back into his chest and surveyed the living room of 221B. He had cleaned the flat just for her, the experiments pushed to the edge, the counter's stains reduced to a dull brown (she would rather not know what they were). She turned around and smiled at him. "It looks nice Sherlock. Thank you." She said. His face was happy, though unsmiling. "John and Mary moved upstairs this morning, so we can move your things in." He said. Molly nodded and followed him down the stairs to the waiting moving van. Her things were sorted into boxes, and Molly reached for the smallest. Sherlock directed the moving crew, and Molly's things were swiftly moved into the flat. "And this is our bedroom." Sherlock said, opening the door to the room that had previously been his alone. Molly nodded and went to flop exhaustedly on the bed. Sherlock grabbed her arm and pulled her on. "The tour isn't finished." He said, tugging her to the room that had previously been John's. "I wasn't sure what to do with it at first. But my mother brought over some supplies, and the wall paper and other things and…" Molly heard Sherlock's voice trail off. She pushed the door to the empty room open and flipped the light switch. Bright light flooded the room, showing cream curtains, a dark wood floor, and cream wallpaper with a black design. Molly shut the door behind her and saw a baby cradle that was standing behind it. Molly turned to Sherlock in surprise. "I figured it out." He said, as if reading her thoughts. "You've been feeling ill lately, which, plus your Internet search history, made it fairly obvious." "Sherlock, I'm barely pregnant. Most women don't even now at this point. I find it hard to believe that you figured it out from my search history." Sherlock shrugged dismissively. Molly moved closer to the wall to inspect the design of the wallpaper. "Sherlock! Are these tiny magnifying glasses?" She asked. "Yes." He said, almost sheepishly. "It was the wallpaper in my bedroom when I was young. I thought you might like it. If not…" Molly interrupted him by flinging her arms around his neck. "It is wonderful! Thank you." She said before kissing him gently. He smiled at her as she pulled away. Sherlock placed a hand lightly on her cheek. "Welcome home." He said.


	4. Wine

For the anonymous prompt "wine". I couldn't resist the idea of a drunken Sherlock, and figured it would be fun if his only "symptom" was acting normal.  
Sherlock hated wine. He hated the taste, he hated how it deprived him of the full use of his faculties, he hated how it dampened his deductive powers. And of course, the one day he overindulged it came back to bite him. Lestrade looked up from his desk. He was drowning in paperwork, swamped from the cases that he had yet to write up. A young officer stood at the door of his office nervously wringing his hands. "Sherlock Holmes here for you sir. He's acting…strangely sir. I don't know what's wrong with him." "Go ahead. Send him in. He's probably just wanting a case." The young officer shrugged and moved away. A moment later Sherlock Holmes barged into his office, his coattails swishing around his legs. "Ahh Lestrade." He said, extending his hand to the confused detective inspector. "Looking for a case Sherlock?" He asked. "No, just coming to offer my services. If anyone requires my assistance, don't hesitate to ring me." He said, voice affable. Sherlock flashed a grin at Lestrade and left. The inspector shook his head and shrugged off the unusual behavior. Sherlock Holmes was unpredictable, it was the number one rule when working with him. Sherlock strode into 221B. He found John sitting in a chair, head in his hands. "Alright John?" He asked. "No Sherlock, I'm not. Okay? I was horridly busy at work, we're out of milk, and my girlfriend dumped me." John shifted his hands into a more comfortable position, elbows resting on the table in front of him. "She left me because of you Sherlock. She said she couldn't put up with a man who ran off at all hours after his best friend. She was right you know." John's voice was muffled through his hands. He heard Sherlock shuffle closer to the table. After a minute John felt his hand come to rest awkwardly on his back. "I'm sorry John." He said. "Your wrong. If she isn't willing to put up with your strange schedule then she doesn't deserve you. Good riddance to…Aimee, was it?" John looked at his friend in shock. "You should think about dating that young obstetrician, Mary Morstan. She would compliment your personality quite nicely." He said before leaving the flat as quickly as he had come. John stared after Sherlock's retreating back. Mary Morstan. Hmm… Molly was elbow deep in a cadaver. Liver giving evidence of heavy drinking, abnormal strain upon the heart, most likely cause the excessive fat deposits surrounding it. Molly heard the door to the the morgue swing open and stripped off her latex gloves. "Jason?" She asked. "Is that you?" She didn't hear the intern answer, so she turned to see if it had been her imagination that the doors had opened. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, legs crossed at the ankles and with arms crossed over his chest. He grinned cheekily when she saw him standing there. "Hi Molly." He said, making no effort to move from his position. "Oh, uh, hi Sherlock. Have you been here long?" She asked. She had no idea why he would stand there observing her. When he came into the morgue he infallibly barked his requests at her,conducted his experiments and left. "Not long. A few minutes." He replied, eyes never leaving her face. She fidgeted uneasily under his gaze. Of course, the one time he gives her the undivided attention she had been dreaming of her shyness had to flare up. "Oh, sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you today?" She asked. He shrugged and crossed the morgue to stand in front of her. "Wha…What are you doing Sherlock?" She asked as he cupped her face gently in his hands. For one brief moment she was completely confused. Then he lowered his head to her's and kissed her deeply. It started as a brief kiss, but he swiftly had her pushed against the morgue doors with his hands tangled in her long hair. She tugged on the curls at the back of his neck before pulling away. "Thank you Molly." He said, before walking away without another word. Molly slumped breathlessly against her desk. She almost would have believe that the encounter had never happened except for the taste that clung to her lips and the scent of his heavy coat that hung in the air. Sherlock woke the next morning, disheveled and with a pounding headache. His purple dress shirt was unbuttoned to the third button, showing the smallest sliver of his pale chest, and his hair was a tousled mess. He rubbed at his aching forehead and caught sight of an empty wine bottle (with a tag that read "Courtesy of Mycroft H") that lay discarded on the floor. Ah. The cause of the mischief. He couldn't remember anything of the preceding day. Sherlock flipped over, groaning at the movement, and reached for his phone. He turned it on and waited while the screen lit up. What damage had been done? He felt the phone vibrate in his hands once, twice, three times. He sighed. The first message was from Lestrade. -Well Sherlock, your behavior today was strange. Almost normal. The cleaning lady could use some help scrubbing the toilets if you're interested.-GL Now that was strange. -Sherlock, thanks for yesterday. I took your suggestion and asked Mary Morstan out last night. She's incredible!- JW Sherlock shrugged. Apparently his relational advice was better drunken than sober. The last was from Molly. He sighed heavily. This was going to be painful. -Sherlock. I'm not really sure what that was all about yesterday. If you were sick or delusional then don't worry about it. It was nice though. Thank you. Molly He groaned. Even with a pounding headache courtesy of the worst hangover of his life, he could deduce that he had kissed her. What had he done? Sherlock hitched himself out of bed and pulled on clean clothes. He was going to have to clean up the messes he had made.


	5. Haircut

For the anonymous prompt "haircut". A little implied Sherlolly because I can't resist.

Kathmak Thanks for letting me know. I hadn't realized it was doing this as I transferred them from tumblr.

SammyKatz- Totally! Thanks!

"You will go Sherlock." John said, his tone angry. "I know you don't like Anderson, but honestly, this is ridiculous. You will go to his wedding and you WILL get a haircut. Molly left explicit orders when she left for her holiday with her sister."

Sherlock shrugged.

"No point. They will be divorced within a year. And I don't see why I should get my hair cut."

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. John sighed in exasperation. Watching Sherlock was like babysitting a genius, ridiculously tall, two year old. If it hadn't been Molly asking he wouldn't have done it.

"Because Molly said you needed one. Apparently you skipped out on the last two appointments she made you. I will take you to this appointment if I have to drag you there and tie you to the chair. Actually, Greg did offer some handcuffs. We could use those instead."

A betting pool had been started at Scotland Yard as to how long it would take before Sherlock would get a haircut. It had been almost three months already, and Lestrade had bet 3.5 plus the use of handcuffs (which he was more than happy to supply). Sherlock huffed like a toddler who had realized his tantrum was useless.

"Fine, though I don't see why I should have to listen to you. You are neither my wife, nor my mother."

Thank god. He had no idea how Molly did it. John ignored the irritable detective and texted Lestrade.** -Going in for haircut. I won. Tell the lads to have their payments ready. JW**

Forty-five minutes later Sherlock sat cross armed in a barber chair. His face had a scowl of irritation and anger, but John could only laugh at the uncanny resemblance to his nephew Tobias when he was in the same situation.

"You ready Sherlock?" He asked.

The detective gave him a withering glare and scowled at the young barber who stood behind him. "Nice to meet you. My name is Daniel Jones." He said, extending his hand towards Sherlock, who ignored the greeting. Daniel shrugged and grabbed the hair scissors. "Shall we begin?" He asked. Sherlock gave a petulant huff.

"A trim. Just the ends."

He replied before settling back in the chair, arms crossed sulkily. Ten minutes saw Sherlock's hair barely trimmed. The ends had been snipped, and with each cut of the scissors Sherlock would mutter:

"That's enough for heaven's sake."

The good natured barber just smiled and continued with his work. The end result was Sherlock'a hair barely trimmed and slicked up for the wedding. John laughed at the amount of hair gel the barber had slathered on Sherlock's unruly curls. His friend looked nothing like his usual self. Sherlock shot a venomous look at John and left to pay the barber.

John could hear Sherlock rustling in the bathroom when they got back to 221B. Sherlock had donned a pair of grey dress trousers, a dark navy blue dress shirt, and a tie that John forced him to wear. John had been ready for half an hour and was ready to leave, so he entered the bathroom to find Sherlock. He was prepared for all manner of things (Sherlock had gone to Buckingham Palace naked except for a sheet) but the sight that met his eyes was much stranger than anything he had expected. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, gel washed out of his now only slightly damp curls. He was twisting each curl delicately around his gel-laden fingers. John sent him a questioning glance.

"You have to twist and diffuse, John."

A/N Goofy little one shot, because I like the idea of Sherlock spending a whole bunch of time on his hair.


	6. Spa

The prompt word was "spa" courtesy of the lovely morbidmegz

SammyKatz- Glad you have enjoyed them! I will write more, but I need prompts to do so. I have also almost finished the one you prompted, and will be posting it separately from this one.

Molly wasn't really the spa type. She much preferred to stay at home, eat chocolate, and watch a sappy film. But Mary's bachelorette party included a spa day for the bridal party, so Molly was forced to go through the ordeal. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

Molly tugged at the hem of the too short robe she was wearing. The plushy fabric hit in the middle of her thigh, and she was all too conscious of the fact that she was wearing nothing but her red bra and knickers underneath. The ordeal of the hot stone massage was completed, and she was ready to strangle Mary when she saw her. She had no idea why some women viewed this kind of thing as fun. Molly sighed. Thankfully, she was half way through. She only had to make it through the pedicure and the manicure before she was done. Then she could enjoy a nice meal out with Mary and the other bridesmaids and mope inwardly that she wasn't in a relationship. It wasn't that she wasn't happy for Mary and John. She was. But she wished that she could at least have a boyfriend. All of her friends were getting married and having babies and she was left pining after a man who barely acknowledged her existence. At that moment the door to the little room where Molly was waiting opened. A tall, lean, man with chocolate brown hair walked in. His hair was slicked up in a 1950's James Dean style pompadour and he wore a white t-shirt, dark jeans, and a dark brown military style coat. The only thing that identified him as an employee was a little badge that read "Finn". He paused for a minute in the doorway, then proceed to sit down at the table that stood in the center of the little room. A troupe of bridesmaids filled the room and Molly was relieved. At least she wasn't going to be left alone again. "Um hello. Care to begin?" Finn asked. His voice was so very familiar. "Sure." Molly replied, trying to place where she could have met him. "Well, we'll begin with the manicure. I will start by taking care of the cuticles." It wasn't until 'Finn' bent over her hand that she realized exactly who he was. The piercing blue-green eyes, the profile. He had changed his hair color, and had done marvels with a makeup brush, but there was no denying that 'Finn' was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" Molly hissed, her eyes widening in wonderment. "What are you doing here?"

"Please Molly, don't ruin the sting. I have been undercover as Finn for the past 6 weeks. This spa is the drop sight for a notorious child trafficking ring. I need to stay undercover. There are security cameras everywhere."

Molly was vaguely uncomfortable with the idea of having had a massage with security cameras, but shook the idea out of her head.

"What can I do Sh…Finn?" She asked.

"I don't think that you spoke loudly enough to be heard, but it would be obvious to anyone watching a security camera that you knew me."

Out of the blue, he leaned over and kissed her. She felt her face flush and she almost slapped him on instinct. She could see Mary's eyebrows shoot upwards and she sent Molly a questioning, gleeful glance.

"What was that?" She whispered.

"You're my girlfriend. Our relationship is fairly new, which is why you haven't told your friends yet. You didn't know I worked here."

Molly knew for a fact that her face was crimson, but she was going to milk this for what is was worth. While Sherlock was away retrieving the extra supplies he needed for the pedicure, Mary rushed to Molly's side.

"MOLLY!" She exclaimed. "You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend! What's his name? How did you meet? How long have you been dating?"

Molly felt a rush of confusion. She had no idea how to answer any of the questions her friend was firing at her in rapid succession. Mercifully, Sherlock returned in time to hear the barrage of inquiries.

"I'm Finn." He said, extending a hand to Mary. "Molly and I have been dating for two months, and we met at a concert. I am an aspiring violinist, and she happened to be at a performance of my instructor's that I was attending. We literally ran into each other at intermission." He chuckled as if recalling a fond memory.

Mary seemed to readily accept his explanation.

"I don't see why you didn't tell me before Molls." She said. "Oh, it looks like Tanya is ready to start the pedicure. Have fun you two!"

She called over her shoulder as she bounced away. She fit John to a t. She was a happy, caring, generous girl and she loved John with all her heart. Molly could see Sherlock watching her from the corner of her eye.

"What is it Finn?" She asked, using the assumed name very slowly and deliberately. He rolled his eyes at her.

"Do you think she's alright for John?" He asked, concern bleeding through his usually impenetrable voice.

Molly nodded enthusiastically. "Mary's a sweetheart. She helps John. They will be very happy." She said.

He nodded and began to give her her pedicure.

Molly was moving to leave (who knew Sherlock was so good at painting toenails?) when she felt him move from in front of her. He caught her face in his hand and whispered in her ear.

"Thank you for not blowing my cover Molly." He said before kissing her swiftly. She knew the blush on her face had returned and that it was slowly creeping down her neck, but she determined to enjoy these last few minutes of her "relationship". In the cab on the way home she sent him a quick text.

**-How do I explain Finn and I's rapid change from happy to broken up? Molly H **

-You_ can keep him for a month. One dinner thrown in as repayment. SH_


	7. Cuddles

A/N little established Sherlolly fluff for the one word prompt "cuddles" courtesy of the lovely jankmusic. Enjoy.

yay- what can I say? Sherlock is unique. :)

SammyKatz- I have written both of your prompts and will post them here.

Molly Hooper had the flu. Simple as that. Her stomach felt like it was being sent through a meat grinder and her throat was rubbed raw. She lay spread-eagled on her bed in Baker St, chills running up and down her body that had been on fire a moment before, waiting for the next round of nausea and vomiting that was sure to come. She was wearing a pair of gym shorts and a purple tank top. Her sweatshirt was discarded on the floor, a memento of the last heat wave that had left her roasting. She was too tired to get out of bed for it. She turned her head to get a view of the television, some American program that she didn't care to watch was playing. All she wanted was for Sherlock to come home and sit with her. He and John had been out on a case for two days, something involving a triple homicide at a playground. It was grisly, three young nannies had been killed. At that moment her phone buzzed.  
On my way. Case solved- SH  
Twenty minutes later she heard the door to the flat open. Sherlock was humming a military song that John sang occasionally.  
"Molly. Mo-lly!" He bellowed through the flat.  
"In here." She called faintly. In the twenty minutes that it had taken him to come home she had vomited once, but she was feeling better. Maybe this stupid flu had run it's course. Sherlock tromped into the bedroom, unbuttoning his grey dress shirt which he tossed over a chair. He flopped down on the bed. Molly stifled a groan at the sudden movement.  
"Are you alright?" He asked, noticing her pale, sickly face for the first time.  
"I have the flu. You might want to leave so you don't catch it too."  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, and if she hadn't been puking her guts out 20 minutes before she would have found it funny.  
"Molly, you of all people know I have an iron constitution. You couldn't make me sick if you tired." He said, his voice almost offended.  
Molly giggled.  
"Okay, but you have to agree to one thing if you are going to stay."  
"Hmm?"  
"Cuddles. If you are going to take the chance of getting sick you are going to have to agree to cuddles."  
Sherlock sighed, but opened his arms in reply. Molly snuggled into his chest and he wrapped his arms around her small body. Her head fit perfectly under his jaw and he moved to kiss her hair gently. She sighed happily and twisted her legs with his. He held her there, stroking her hair lazily. She gradually fell asleep, nuzzling closer to his chest. They lay there, the sleeping pathologist and the world's only sociopathic consulting detective. Sherlock watched crap telly until he too fell asleep


	8. Another Kiss

Another kiss

The prompt was "Another Kiss" courtesy of the lovely SammyKatz. Enjoy.

Their first kiss hadn't really even counted. They had been working on a case and Sherlock had to kiss Molly to stay in character. That's not to say that Molly hadn't enjoyed the brief gesture, but it really takes away the fun when your "boyfriend" is only kissing you to distract a hit man from his target. It was a long story...

"Molly!" The pathologist in question jumped when she heard her name called through the previously silent morgue. John Watson stood in the doorway, a pained expression on his face.

"Is Sherlock here? He was muttering about corpses, acid, and "his girlfriend" before he ran out of the flat. I saw him catch a cab and thought he might be here." The doctor said, his tone a mixture of concern and complete aggravation.

"No he hasn't been in all morning. Sorry. Does Sherlock have a girlfriend?" Molly asked, the full import of John's words sinking in.

"Not that I know of. I thought he might mean you. He has strange ideas of what constitutes a relationship."

Molly felt her cheeks turn bright red, and the familiar, though still uncomfortable, heat spread down her neck.

"Well, he hasn't been here at any right. I will text you or something if he drops by."

The flustered doctor nodded and rushed out the door.

"Good luck!" Molly called after him.

An hour passed and Molly continued to work unhindered. The only sound in the morgue was her iPod blaring terrible pop songs at full volume. Molly was in the middle of a chemical analysis (while also singing Lady Gaga at the top of her lungs) when she heard the doors swing open. She stopped singing, though she continued to allow her music to blast through the chilly morgue. She heard footsteps approach her desk and was turned around swiftly by a pair of large hands. She squeaked in surprise, but was cut off by none other than Sherlock Holmes kissing her cheek and walking to the opposite bench. He sat down as if nothing had happened and reached for a pipette that was close at hand.

"Some of that sulfuric acid from yesterday should suffice for this experiment." He said.

"Wha..." Molly managed to stutter. Honestly she was surprised she managed to say anything at all.

"Sulfuric acid for my..." He began, but Molly interrupted him mid-sentence.

"Why did you kiss me?" She asked, able to avoid stammering for once.

He shrugged carelessly and turned back to the pipette and Petri dish that sat in front of him on the table.

"That's what people do when they see their 'girlfriend'. I can't say I am fond of the phrase, and I absolutely refuse to be called your boyfriend. John said there are other options available."

"My what?" Molly asked, completely confused. "Sherlock, you're not my boyfriend. What are you talking about?"

He completely ignored her final question.

"Exactly. Boyfriend makes me sound childish, which we both know I am not." He said.

"Sherlock! We aren't dating! What put that idea in your head?" Molly was unsure that she was even awake. Was this some sort of strange dream where she was dating Sherlock but was unaware of it? Was she in a coma?

"Of course we are. We went to that gala, and you went as my... girlfriend. We've been dating for five months. Everyone is aware of the fact."

Sherlock's voice was almost condescending, as if he were explaining something to a child who wasn't very bright. Molly groaned.

"Sherlock, just because I went to a dinner with you doesn't make me your girlfriend. Not that I... I mean I... Oh never mind. If I have been your girlfriend for the last five months, why has it taken you that long to even kiss my cheek?"

Sherlock moved his hands aimlessly, tapping the finger positions of the violin solo for Vivaldi's "Spring" on his leg. He mumbled something under his breath that Molly was unable to hear. She looked at him questioningly and he repeated himself louder.

"The timing hasn't been right. I gave you gifts though." He said. He sounded like a little boy who had been scolded, trying to mask his confusion at what he could have done wrong with a tough exterior.

"Um... You did?" Molly said, her tone softening somewhat. She felt bad for the way she had handled this.

"Yes, of course." He said, voice back to his usual tone. "I gave you that pancreas, I allowed John to keep Toby for you when you were on holiday, I even gave you a liver from a man who dressed up as Santa Claus for Christmas. Not even mentioning the heart at Valentines day. I really have been a very attentive... boyfriend."

Molly looked at him in shock. She had found the body parts creepy, especially since the heart had been anonymously plunked on her desk amidst her papers. Molly looked at Sherlock, whose face was set in the puppy dog face that she both hated and adored.

"Do you really want to be my boyfriend Sherlock?" She asked.

She saw him flinch at the term.

"Due to the fact that I have been for the past five months, I would say it is sufficiently clear that yes, I would like to relate to you in that capacity."

Molly smiled, though inwardly she was doing something between a happy dance and a nauseating summersault.

"Well... Okay then." She said, the awkwardness suddenly returning. She spontaneously jumped to her feet and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. He pulled her in closer, wrapping her hair around his fingers.

"I believe it would be proper to give you a gift. A cerebral cortex would be cliche. I think I could get a bone marrow sample if you don't mind waiting a few..."

Molly cut him off by kissing him once more, swifter this time. She was going to have to beg John to give Sherlock some lessons in appropriate gift giving.


	9. Birth

The prompt was "birth" courtesy of the lovely SammyKatz (it was specified that Sherlock had to deliver the baby). Hope you like it.

Molly grimaced in pain as another contraction hit her. Each one left her weak and tired. She had no idea how she was going to make it through the rest of labor, not to mention the birth itself, without fainting from pain and utter exhaustion. She felt Sherlock adjusting the cool cloth that covered her eyes.

"Why did you want to take this bloody trip?" She managed to say from between gritted teeth.

It had started innocently enough. Sherlock and Molly had been invited to visit Sherlock's mother for Christmas, and of course the invitation had been accepted. They had made the trip to the Holmes estate, a nine month pregnant Molly less than enthusiastic about the prospect of traveling so close to her due date. But when Mrs Holmes extends an invitation, it is unwise to refuse. But Sherlock had not accounted for two things. The first was that his mother would not be home when they arrived a day early. The second was that they would be snowed in, alone except for the aged butler and the cook.

Molly swatted Sherlock's hand away from her face. He had been fiddling with her sweat-dampened hair.

"Stop touching me Sherlock." She spat disgustedly, "It's your fault that I am in this situation. I hate you!"

Sherlock chuckled.

"I see you are in transition." He said dryly.

Molly growled in frustration.

"Just leave!" She all but shouted.

Sherlock stood as if to leave the room but Molly reached for his arm, dragging him down on to the bed next to her.

"Don't leave, Sherlock." She whimpered. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him as close to her as she could. He kissed her forehead softly before climbing off the bed. It was going to be a long night.

Three hours later and Molly was still in the midst of labor. She was alternatively panting and crying, yelling at Sherlock and telling him just how much she loved him. Sherlock had been undercover as an obstetrician for three months once, so he knew just enough to be able to tell Molly when to push. At first she hadn't believed him, but the sensation in her own body soon told her otherwise. The pushing stage was mercifully short, though the animalistic cries of pain from Molly made the process seem much longer. Molly let her head loll back when it was over, no longer aware of anything aside from the fact that the pain had stopped. Suddenly, she heard the cries of a newborn infant. She cracked her eyes open to catch sight of Sherlock at the end of the bed, holding their baby.

"It's another Holmes boy!" He said proudly, placing the baby on Molly's chest. She smiled and stroked the soft, downy hair on the baby's head soothingly. She handed the baby back to Sherlock, who quickly cut the cord. He washed the baby gently and wrapped him in a blanket before laying down next to Molly. He situated the baby on her chest.

"What should we name him?" She asked.

Sherlock examined the little boy, who at this point was sleeping peacefully. He ran his fingers through his hair before intertwining them with Molly's.

"William, like your father, Charles like mine." He said, looking to Molly for her approval.

"Welcome to the world William Charles Holmes." She said.

"Besides, I think it is a very fitting name for a pirate." Sherlock said.

Not even the swat on the arm from his exhausted wife could dampen his enthusiasm.


	10. Flirty Lestrade

Prompt was "Flirty Lestrade". Hope you like it!

Molly felt like she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer. She had been working feverishly for the past eight hours, only stopping to eat for ten minutes, which had been hours ago. This case was consuming everyone in the morgue and at the Yard. Lestrade and Sherlock had been constantly in and out of the doors, keeping up a steady flow of chemicals and substances for her to analyze. At the moment the two were bent over the microscope across from her, Sherlock telling Lestrade the exact importance of the solitary fibre they were examining. The detective inspector, brain numb from hours of unceasing mental gymnastics, was unable to grasp the overwhelming evidence the single strand presented. Sherlock was berating him for his "obvious blindness to all maters criminal." Lestrade sighed and walked to where Molly was standing, resting his hand lightly on her back. She smiled up at him, surprised by the sudden close proximity. He grinned down at her, inclining his body slightly towards hers. Molly returned to the analysis she was working on.

"Uhm, you were right Sherlock. The soil was from Yorkshire."

Sherlock looked up briefly and nodded almost imperceptibly. Greg leaned a tad bit closer to where Molly was seated, but she scooted over almost imperceptibly.

"Wow. Good job Molly!" He said effusively. "You're really smart."

"Thanks." She said, suddenly a bit uncomfortable. Was he…flirting?

Sherlock looked up at the little exchange between the two.

"Say Molly, would you like to go out for dinner sometime?" Lestrade asked her. It all made sense now. The disgust on Sherlock's face was plain to see.

"No Lestrade, she would not. Why would Molly want to 'go out' with a man nearly old enough to be her father? And besides, that divorce of yours isn't quite final yet, is it?" He asked scathingly. The DI looked up, startled at the sudden outburst from the previously silent Sherlock.

"Oh...um I have to be going. See you later Molly. Call me if you want to, okay?" He said, before hurriedly leaving the morgue. Molly sent Sherlock her best evil glare.

"I could have taken care of it Sherlock. You didn't have to be so rude." She said.

Her words were dangerously slow. Sherlock took the hint, he was treading dangerous ground. He stood up and walked around the bench to where he sat. He looked down at her pleadingly, trying his best to make her forgive him without having to admit he was wrong. She just shook her head at him silently.

"Sherlock, Greg doesn't know about us. The only person who does is Mucroft, and the only reason he knows is because he practically threatened a governmental investigation in order to learn. Don't hold it against him Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed but shrugged. She leaned up and kissed his nose.

"Alright. I have to go apologize to Greg. Is it okay if I tell him? I don't think he will understand otherwise." Sherlock nodded unwillingly.

"Fine. But if he tries to flirt with you again he should realize that something unpleasant will happen in his future. I'm not saying what. I'm not saying where. But he's not going to like it." He said.

Molly giggled at his dramatic behavior and went to find Greg. This would be fun to explain…


	11. Tickle

The prompt was "tickle" courtesy of the wonderful lais89. This was written rather quickly, so I apologize if it is horrible.  
Molly lay in the narrow hotel bed, legs curled up to her stomach. She had spent a week play acting as Sherlock's wife. A week biding their time in a resort as they waited to find the criminal. The week had reminded her why she had turned down his offer to move to Baker St. Sherlock had been insufferable, his quirks that were usually only mildly irritating were heightened in a new environment. Molly wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep in her own bed for the first time in what felt like months. But to make things even more painful, they were snowed in.  
Sherlock claimed that he knew the drug smuggler (plus a petty thief, an arsonist and a forger) immediately, but they were forced to stay in character so as not to ruin the operation. This meant they were left struggling through dinners across from elderly couples who found them 'adorable' and seeing much too much at the pool. Molly had never realized just how much she hated speedos until this lovely trip.  
Molly felt Sherlock wiggling next to her, trying to situate his long body on the narrow bed. She reached over to shove him in the ribs with her elbow, hoping that for once he would act like the grown man he supposedly was. But his reaction surprised her more then anything in a LONG time. The contact of her elbow with his stomach drew a long, high pitched…giggle. Molly turned around, completely caught off guard. She nudged him again tentatively, and he once again emitted a shuddering, femininely high pitched giggle. She looked at him and laughed. His face was a mixture of annoyance and consternation and Molly could tell he was trying to retain the last scraps of his dignity. Molly edged closer to him, a devious glint in her eyes that hadn't been there before. The fear was suddenly evident in his face. She reached over, holding her hand palm-downwards over his abdomen, inches from the smooth skin. He stared at her, eyes wide.  
"Molly... I uhm." She grinned and began to move her fingers slowly up and down, torturing the sensitive skin. Again the whine-like laugh bubbled up from deep in his stomach, and he was unable to bite it back. Molly continued for another minute or two, his discomfort a repayment for the week of misery he had put her through. She only stopped when his breath was in choked gasps. He curled up in a ball, protecting the ticklish area from any more torture. She chuckled, turned over, and attempted to sleep. She felt Sherlock draw her closer to his chest.  
"Goodnight Molly." He said.


	12. Swim lessons

The prompt was "swim lesson" from the lovely lais89.  
Molly pulled on her bathing suit and hurriedly reached for the towel that hung over the changing room door. She half waddled to the nearby bench, tugging at the towel that was situated firmly around her body. She wasn't usually self-conscious in bathing suits, but when Sherlock had dragged her to the water park to investigate a murder he had packed her a swimsuit. Bright purple leopard print bikinis weren't really her thing. Molly heard footsteps approaching from behind and turned to find Sherlock waiting behind her. The view was comical. The usually immaculately dressed detective wore a pair of low slung blue board shorts with small red…birds? His dark hair was slicked back and he had no shirt. A pair of black sunglasses were pushed on top of his head. Molly couldn't contain the laugh that bubbled up. Sherlock glared at her, hands on his hips.  
"It was this or hearts. I will not do hearts. Never hearts."  
Sherlock sat down next to Molly.  
"Alright. I believe we should start with the lifeguards. Miss Clark was a professional swimmer, but she drowned. No lifeguards there to help her? How suspicious. I believe the best course of action is to ingratiate yourself with the lifeguards and see if they know anything."  
Two hours later Molly stood next to yet another lifeguard. She was getting tired of flirting with guys at least five years younger then her for information, and was lamenting the fact that she was unable to swim. At least Sherlock was able to fake drown for his information. Swimming was something Molly had always "intended" to learn, but she never had. Her holidays as a girl usually took her hiking or skiing or visiting historical landmarks. She had never had a need to learn.  
Molly went off in search of Sherlock after yet another round of fruitless flirting. All she had learned was that Danny the towel boy had seen the victim and that she had a boyfriend that seemed a little off. Molly found Sherlock in the pool, ready to launch into yet another drowning routine. She beckoned to him and he splashed to the pool's edge, water dripping from the hem of his shorts and from his hair. He flicked his wet curls backwards and settled onto the edge of the pool chair where Molly was seated.  
"Well?" He asked impatiently.  
"Absolutely nothing. She had a creepy boyfriend." She huffed, aggravated by the slightly smug look on Sherlock's face.  
"Yes, Ken. I know. What else?"  
"Flirting isn't exactly the perfect venue for garnering information. They are more interested in my phone number."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Then abandon it. The drowning ruse is quite effective." He watched her for a second. "Oh. You can't swim. It is a very basic thing, why didn't you learn?" He asked.  
She shrugged.  
"I never had the time."  
He quirked an eyebrow at her.  
"Well, come on then. It's about time you learned."  
Sherlock dragged her to the pool's edge, threatened to hoist her over his shoulder to carry her into the water, and then made good on his promise. Molly stood knee deep in the still water, arms across her chest, teeth chattering. Sherlock reached for her wrist, pulling her further in until the water was to her chest. She reached out, stabilizing herself against him. She was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was wearing a bikini and that they were surrounded by people. He pulled her just a little deeper, the water now just under her chin.  
"The first thing you have to do is float. Just lay back and hold your breath. If you are still, the water will support you."  
Molly took a deep breath and lay back in the water. Her body felt buoyant, a new experience for her. Suddenly, she felt one of Sherlock's long hands on her back, the other resting lightly on her (bare) stomach to stabilize her. She could feel his breath on her upturned face. The sudden recognition of their close proximity flustered her, breaking her concentration. This caused her to flounder for a second. She felt his grip tighten on her back, supporting her with his hand.  
"Relax." He said, his deep voice close to her ear.  
Like that was going to happen.  
"That's enough for now. Now you need to learn to float on your stomach with your face in the water. It's not comfortable at first."  
He suddenly flipped her in the water. She almost choked from surprise, inches from inhaling a mouthful of chlorine-laden pool water. Sherlock pulled her closer to his side. He wrapped one long arm around her torso, bracing his hand on his hip. Molly felt like giggling at the closeness, but she thought better of it with her face in the water. After what felt like months (but was really only a minute and a half) Sherlock returned Molly to her original standing position.  
"I think you are about ready to try swimming." He said, wading to the edge of the pool. "But first you have to learn to kick."  
Molly waded after him, unaccustomed to the feeling of her body in this much water. She was uncomfortably aware of just how ungraceful her movements looked.  
"Grab onto the edge of the pool and allow your body to float up. When you have done that, begin kicking gently. Keep your legs straight and move them up and down in a scissor motion. Let me show you."  
Molly twisted her head to get a better view of his legs, but instead Sherlock moved his arms from where they were crossed on the edge of the pool. She felt him grasp her legs, hands just above her knees on her thighs. Molly could feel her face turn cherry red. He slowly began alternating the motion of her legs, one leg moving up as the other moved down. He let go of her, motioning for her to continue on her own as he bolstered her up with a hand on her stomach. Molly continued the slow movements, all the while trying to ignore the strange sensation pervading her head. She knew Sherlock was…relationally challenged…but did her really not comprehend what he was doing? Molly heard the voice of the man in question breaking through her thoughts.  
"That is enough for now. I think you are ready." Molly turned around to see the detective a little further out in the water. The water was under his chin, a depth that would be just over Molly's head.  
"Well?" He asked laconically.  
"I don't know what you want me to do." Her voice was a little bit panicked, not quite ready to trust herself to her still subpar swimming skills.  
"Honestly Molly. Infants have been taught to swim, I doubt it is too difficult for a capable woman such as yourself. Float on your stomach while allowing the water to hold you up, kick your legs, and move your arms in a circular motion over your head."  
Molly pushed away from the pool wall, following Sherlock's instruction to the letter. She felt her legs propelling her body forward, her arms cutting through the surface…and herself sinking. Molly felt the panic bubbling up. The water was well over her head and the fear was causing her to have trouble getting her bearings. She felt two long arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close to a broad chest and up to the surface of the water. Sherlock completely lifted her out of the water as if she weighed nothing. He sat her on the pool's edge before hoisting himself up by the palms. He settled next to her, pulling her sopping hair out of her face.  
"I really don't understand the difficulty you were experiencing, but I believe the best course of action would be a life jacket." He said.


	13. Bicycle lessons

The prompt was that Sherlock teaches his daughter to ride a bike in an overprotective manner. A big thanks to SammyKatz for the prompt. Also, a huge thanks to all who have left prompts and reviews.  
Molly sat on the steps of her mother's house, arms crossed on her pregnant belly. She saw Sherlock shuffling impatiently on the sidewalk, a miniature pink bicycle with purple streamers beside him on the pavement. She heard heavy footsteps behind her and turned to see her daughter Maeve waddling towards her. The little girl was covered in protective padding (knee pads, elbow pads, and what appeared to be a mouth guard). A bubblegum-pink helmet was perched precariously on top of her brown pigtails. Molly laughed at the sight.  
"Why are you done up like that love?" She asked, still giggling somewhat.  
The little girl gave a muffled, unrecognizable answer.  
"Sherlock?" Molly asked, looking over at the man who was studiously ignoring them. He looked up at the mention of his name, face a mixture of surprise and offended dignity.  
"Teaching children to ride a bicycle on pavement is dangerous. I preferred she wait until the next time we visited my mother, but as you insisted that she learn today, I believe it is only wise to take the proper precautions." He said.  
Molly pulled the little girl as close to her as her belly would allow and popped the mouth guard into her hand.  
"She won't be needing this." She said, holding the plastic tray up for inspection.  
"Sherlock, when did you ever find time to have a custom mouth guard made for Maeve? And even more importantly, why?" Molly asked, bewildered.  
Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand.  
"You have no idea how much can be accomplished during a prenatal yoga class. I believe Mycroft could declare war, fight, and make peace in one class session."  
Molly made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson to babysit during her next class. Who knew what Sherlock was doing?  
"Alright sweetie. Daddy is going to help you ride your bike. I will watch from here." She said.  
The little girl trundled off towards her father, movements only slightly hampered by the padding encasing her. Molly settled back into the rather uncomfortable step. She could hear her mother whistling opera in the kitchen through the open front door, the sounds of birds singing floated down towards her. It was her birthday, and they were visiting her mother for dinner. Molly was beginning to feel the October chill biting through her thin jacket. She was about to go inside to discuss nursery plans for the new baby boy with her mother when the bike lesson caught her eye. Sherlock had one hand firmly planted on Maeve's shoulder, the other on the handlebar of the bicycle. He was gently pushing her along the pavement, barely allowing her to turn the pedals at all.  
"Now Maeve, you should apply pressure to the the brakes. With your level of experience it would be unwise to go any faster then this."  
Sherlock guided the bike to a stop.  
"We aren't going any further then this. The pavement is cracked and uneven. There is a good chance that you could fall."  
Sherlock turned the bike around. He let go of Maeve's back reluctantly and walked a little further up the road.  
"Now Maeve." He said. " I want you to ride to me. Be very careful."  
The little girl nodded, helmet bouncing loosely on her head. She pedaled forwards and promptly tipped over. Sherlock trotted over to where she had fallen. It was obvious to Molly that she was alright, just a little confused, but Sherlock picked her up and carried her to where Molly sat.  
"Are you alright?" He asked.  
She nodded, a smile on her dirt-smudged face. Blades of grass clung to Maeve's clothes and green stains marred the knees of her jeans.  
"Don't you see why I didn't want to teach her to ride a bike here. It is dangerous. She could have hit her head and gotten a concussion."  
Sherlock pulled the now dirty helmet from his daughter's head and took her by the hand.  
"Let's get you washed up. I think your grandma is making devil's food cake."  
Molly watched as her husband and daughter trooped into the house. She could hear Maeve chanting something about cake as Sherlock gave her a lecture on the dangers of bike riding. Molly slowly eased her way off the stairs, moving to retrieve the abandoned bicycle.


	14. Lace negligee

The prompt was "lace negligee" courtesy of the lovely Kathmak.  
Sorry this took me so long to write love! I hope you like it.  
There were many things Sherlock Holmes detested. He hated public buses, Katy Perry (a hatred that had been slightly assuaged by learning that it was Molly's music of choice when cleaning in her underwear and tank top) and most importantly, Anderson. But there was nothing (not even an annoying forensics guy from Scotland Yard) that could beat out his utter loathing of shopping.  
Molly pulled on Sherlock's hand, tugging the tall man into the lingerie shop that was located near the front of the shopping mall.  
"Come on Sherlock, most guys enjoy lingerie shopping." She said, pulling him to the first rack.  
He huffed, hoping to dissuade her by his display of utter irritation. But Molly was not to be thrown off course.  
"Seriously Sherlock! You'll benefit from this trip. The least you could do is not act so…petulant."  
Molly heard a loud guffaw from behind her and turned to find John Watson and his wife Mary. Mary was vigorously shushing her husband.  
"As humorous as this is, I would really rather not hear about your sex life kids. The banging and moaning from your flat is enough for me."  
Mary swatted at her husband, face scarlet, as John continued to chuckle.  
"I didn't know you were shopping today Molly." She said, attempting to change the subject quickly. "If I had known earlier, we could have left our immature husbands at home and gone together. John and I just finished up."  
"That's alright." Molly said. "Sherlock and I just dashed out for some stuff." This elicited another round of laughter from John.  
"Well, see you later Molly." Mary said. "Ready John?"  
The pair walked away, and Molly could see Mary scolding John for his behavior. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to kiss her. She shook her head at him, but Molly could tell even from a distance that he had gotten off the hook.  
"See Sherlock." She said. "John comes shopping with Mary and doesn't complain."  
Sherlock sighed and began sifting through the lacy undergarments hanging on the racks.  
Twenty minutes and countless different types of lingerie later, Molly felt like crying from exasperation. She was inches from going home, eating some chocolate, and punching the punching bag that she had set up in the spare bedroom. John had recommended she take up a stress relieving hobby when she had moved to Baker St, so for the past two years her punching bag (affectionately named Louie) had been her outlet of choice. Molly sighed, pulling her sweater over her head. Another failed attempt. She had particularly liked the yellow set she had tried on, but when she had called Sherlock into the dressing room his only response had been a noncommittal shrug. At least it was better than the bubblegum comment on the pink ones…she was making progress.  
She found her husband seated on a shockingly hot pink tufted bench.  
"I think we should just call it a day." She sighed. "You obviously like none of it, and I am tired of trying things on."  
Sherlock stood up, causing her to stop speaking suddenly.  
"Just a minute Molly." He said, walking over to another rack full of frothy, lacy undergarments. He pulled three hangers off the rack, directing Molly back into the dressing room with a wave of his hand. He pulled back the curtain of the dressing room after retrieving the garments of his choosing. He settled himself comfortably on the black ottoman that was situated in the spacious cubicle.  
"You can't just sit here Sherlock." Molly said.  
"It's not like I haven't seen it before Molly." He said, a wolfish grin on his face.  
Molly rolled her eyes, picking up the stack of undergarments that Sherlock had deposited next to him.  
The first item was a red bra and knickers set with a small amount of silver stitching running throughout. The second was a navy blue pair with tiny skulls embroidered in gold. But the third was a lace negligee, the fabric a silvery grey. She held it up to her shoulders. It hit just above her knee, the fabric loose from the empire waist. Molly pulled her sweater over her head and discarded her skirt on the floor. She felt the lace envelope her body, the cool fabric pleasantly thin. She admired herself in the mirror for a second. She felt beautiful. Sherlock had chosen well. She turned to the husband in question, holding her arms up to model the clothing.  
"Well?"  
He didn't respond immediately. His brows were raised, a slight smirk lifting one corner of his mouth higher than the other.  
"You don't like it." She said, a tinge of sadness coloring her voice.  
He shook his head.  
"Don't try to deduce, Molly. You really aren't good at it."  
The next morning a frazzled Doctor Watson entered the kitchen that he and Mary shared with Molly and Sherlock. Sherlock sat at the table, a sheet wrapped around his thin frame and the newspaper gripped in his hands. Molly stood at the fridge, retrieving the ingredients necessary to make breakfast. The fact that she was wearing Sherlock's dressing gown (apparently only Sherlock's dressing gown) wasn't lost on the doctor. He could both see and observe when he needed to.  
"I swear by all things holy Sherlock," John said. "If you make that much bloody racket ever again, I will pay Lestrade to make Anderson the only person you will ever work with on forensics again. Trying to convince a pregnant woman that she is not in labour while you are shouting 'Mollllyyy' every ten seconds is not enjoyable."  
Sherlock shrugged at the retreating form of the doctor, a smirk gracing his face.


	15. Not a chapter (but please read)

Hello! This isn't a chapter, mostly just a bit shameless self-promotion. I have run out of one word prompts, and am in the mood to write. If you have a prompt for me either leave it in the comments or pm it to me.

Also, as I have been asked a few times, most of these stories are unrelated. There are only three stories that actually follow a 'timeline'. Kawaii, bike lessons, and Birth follow that order.


	16. Nightmare

The prompt was "nightmare", courtesy of the lovely Kathmak.  
His body hit the pavement. Even though the plan had been perfectly orchestrated, she cringed. John was weeping and trying to push his way through the crowd. She wanted to go to him and tell him that it was ok, that Sherlock was alive. But she couldn't. She followed the body (him, not a body, it was Sherlock) as it was wheeled into the morgue.  
"I'll do it Tom." She said.  
The man wheeling the gurney looked up, pity in his eyes.  
"You sure Molly?" He asked. "I can take care of him."  
She shook her head.  
"Please? For closure, you know."  
Tom nodded his head before giving her a spur of the moment hug.  
"I'm so sorry Molly." He said.  
Molly waited until his footsteps no longer resonated in the empty hall before removing the cloth.  
"It's alright. It's just us now Sherlock." She said.  
But the detective didn't move. His face remained still. Molly heard herself calling him, but he didn't answer.  
Sherlock Holmes was a light sleeper. Before he begun dating Molly he hadn't been a "sleeper" at all, but as she insisted on keeping a regular schedule, he had adjusted. Sherlock woke to Molly whimpering. Her eyes were shut tight and her teeth were clamped together. A few stray tears slid down her cheeks. He sighed. Molly had been having insistent nightmares for weeks now, every one was completely different. He shook her arm gently but she didn't wake up. Instead, she cried his name, louder than before. He shook her a little more harshly before pressing his lips to her forehead.  
"Molly, wake up."  
He could tell by the sudden relaxation of her muscles that she was awake. She gave a small cry before flipping over in bed, snuggling as far into his chest as possible.  
"You fell, and John was crying, and I thought you were okay, but you were dead…" She said in a rush.  
He pulled her closer to his body. Her chest was heaving and her hair was damp with perspiration. He wrapped an arm around her small waist while stroking her hair softly with his other hand. He snapped the bedside lamp on and tilted her chin back so he could see her eyes.  
"I am perfectly safe Molly. It was a nightmare, a product of chemicals, your imagination, and stress. It's alright." He said.  
Sherlock rolled over so that Molly was lying on top of him. Her legs fit comfortably in between his, and his hands were tangled in her long hair. He kissed her, gently at first and then with more force. It was only when he felt her moan softly that he pulled away.  
"I'm right here." He said. "I'm not going anywhere."  
Sherlock sat up, looking at the clock that blinked 5:29 in bright red numbers.  
"No use going back to sleep." He muttered.  
He rolled out of bed, reaching for the navy dressing gown that was tossed carelessly on the floor. He dug through the tangled mess that was his trousers and shirt and Molly's dress from the day before. He pulled the gown around himself and strode to Molly's side of the bed, picking her up bridal style in his arms.  
"C'mon. We are going to go watch some television." Sherlock carried her to the living room, where he plopped down on the sofa with Molly still in his arms. He stretched full length on the sofa, Molly lying on top of his chest. He absentmindedly stroked a finger down every inch of skin from her cheek to her belly, where he began tracing random patterns and words. The hushed sounds of early morning news shows emanated from the television. It wasn't until thirty minutes later that Sherlock realized Molly had fallen asleep.  
Molly woke on the couch, clutched firmly in Sherlock's arms. His eyes were closed and his breathing was calm and steady. Good. He needed sleep. She glanced over at the clock. 7:42. She was going to be late. Molly attempted to extricate herself from Sherlock's grasp, but his hand flopped protectively over her chest and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Oh well. She could always call in sick.


	17. Discovered

I have taken the liberty of giving this one the prompt word "discovered". The prompt idea came from the lovely lalala. I am terrible at writing anything even somewhat smutty, so I hope this isn't a disappointment. I was going to go ahem…full bore…but I couldn't do that to poor John.

John Watson was used to surprises. Being a soldier in Afghanistan (not to mention the flatmate/blogger of one sociopathic consulting detective) insured that very few things were surprising to him. But Sherlock Holmes was not most things.

Molly heard the morgue doors swing open and looked up in time to see Sherlock sweep through. He crossed the room in one swift motion and stood behind her at her desk. He put his hands on her ribcage, fingers probing through the fabric of her shirt. His face was next to hers, lips inches from her ear.

"John's gone." He muttered.

She shrugged, but the goosebumps on the back of her neck betrayed her. He chuckled, a slow deep sound that was impossibly seductive, and turned her around. Before she knew it, his lips were smashed to hers and her arms were wrapped firmly around his neck. They had been dating for six months but had yet to tell anyone other then Mrs Hudson. She only knew because she had found a way to get them both in her home, at which point she had locked the door. She had refused to let them out until they confessed they were dating.

"Sherlock. Someone will be here any…"

He cut her off by pushing her up against the wall. His hands slowly roamed her torso, only stopping to pop the buttons of her blouse. She tangled her hands in his hair, tugging his head backwards by the tiny curls at the nape of his neck. A low groan of appreciation filled the previously silent air as she sucked experimentally at his neck. He pulled her face up to his, kissing her lips gently before kissing slowly and languidly down her neck. He pushed her closer to the wall, kissing down her chest. Molly gasped when she felt Sherlock's cold hand on her stomach. His fingers were splayed, nudging and teasing the sensitive skin. Her finger's were at his waistband, about to make his trousers join her blouse and his heavy coat on the floor, when Molly heard a voice resound through the quiet morgue. She looked up, face and neck more red than is usually humanly possible, and scrambled for her shirt. She was only thankful that she still had on a bra and her skirt. Sherlock looked up from where he had been lazily licking at Molly's chest, a look of something akin to pride on his face. John stood in the door way, a mixture of disgust and amusement evident on his face.

"Coffee." He said, plunking the drink in question in front of Sherlock's usual microscope. "Be safe kids!" He called over his shoulder.

Molly looked at Sherlock, face a brilliant shade of scarlet.

"You heard the man." He said, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

She pushed his curly head away.

"Not tonight Mister Holmes." She said, shoving him towards the door. "You owe John an explanation."

Sherlock was moping as he left the morgue.

"It's not like he couldn't figure it out for himself." He muttered.


	18. Talk

The prompt came from the lovely SammyKatz, and I have taken the liberty of giving it the description word "talk".  
Sherlock lay on the sofa, bare feet propped on the arm rest. Mycroft lounged in the armchair across from him studying Sherlock's immobile face. Sherlock's voice was stiff and monotone, the sound quieter than usual. He turned towards Mycroft.  
"I tried to resist it." He said. "I really did. I catalogued the thoughts in my mind palace. I thought I could ignore them. But I couldn't. I love Molly Hooper. I know you don't approve, and I know Mummy won't either. But honestly, I don't care. I just wanted to let you know that I am going to ask her to marry me."  
Mycroft settled back into his chair, the smirk on his face elongating into an uncharacteristic grin.  
"Honestly, I believe the sentiment is weakening your mind. You honestly thought I didn't know about this? You have been spending an inordinate amount of time at Bart's, even when you aren't on a case. Mrs Hudson told me that there are many nights where you don't come home at all, suggesting that you are spending the night with someone. Also, there is a hickey on your neck, tomorrow's date circled in red ink with the word "anniversary" penciled in on the calendar, and the bulge of a ring box in your pocket. It is obvious, my dear brother, that you have developed a romantic attachment (obviously both emotionally serious and physical) and that you are going to propose. If there was any doubt in my mind, the mildly suggestive text that popped up on your phone with the initials MH eradicated it. As I did not send you a text about your 'sexy purple shirt'', the only other MH who would be sending you text messages is the lovely Doctor Hooper."  
Mycroft leaned forward.  
"I do approve." He said "From the beginning, I had singled out Doctor Hooper as a suitable wife for you. She is intelligent, loyal, and above all else, she loves you. I honestly think you are a bit of an idiot for not figuring it out sooner."  
Sherlock looked up, a little surprised at the almost paternalistic tone in Mycroft's voice. It was the tone he had used when Sherlock was little, the tone he had used to soothe him after nightmares, to comfort him when the other children had made fun of him. Sherlock nodded slowly.  
"Thank you." He said quietly.  
Mycroft stood up from the chair, stretching like a cat.  
"Congratulations Sherlock." He said, holding out his hand. The brothers shook hands, and Mycroft walked quietly out of the flat.  
Sherlock brushed post John on the stairs of the flat.  
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" John asked.  
Sherlock looked at him, a small smile playing across his features.  
"Molly's."


	19. Irene

The prompt was "Sherlock tells off Irene after she makes a move on him" courtesy of the lovely SammyKatz

Dinner? I don't think your pathologist is satisfactory in that department.-IA

Sherlock rolled over to slap at his buzzing phone. Molly was asleep next to him, making it slightly difficult to get at the bedside table without waking her up. Her legs were tangled in his and she had rested her head on his chest. She mumbled his name when he moved to retrieve his mobile. He smirked when she snuggled even closer to his torso, the bare skin of her stomach pressing against him. Sherlock managed to grab at the phone, stretching the majority of his body out of bed. He saw the text message and rolled his eyes. The number of "food related" texts from Irene had diminished as his relationship with Molly had progressed. He had changed the ringtone that accompanied the suggestive messages, but Molly usually seemed to figure out when he had received an invitation from the dominatrix. She was infallibly quiet and upset for a day or two before returning to normal. She told him it was no big deal (an occupational hazard, she called it), but he knew better. Molly had always been insecure, and Sherlock did not like the thought of Irene Adler adding to those insecurities. He was still in the half-dazed state that is the usual result of an interruption to sleep, but he brought up the message to reply. He had learned early on in his relationship with Molly that it was unwise to leave a message from Irene "untended". Molly usually had terrible timing, managing to catch a glimpse of the messages that he had either ignored or not realized he had received. He snaked one arm around Molly's back, enjoying the touch of her bare chest and torso up against him more than he would care to admit, and began hastily typing a reply.

Your offer was unnecessary, as have been all others. I would appreciate a cessation of texts. My pathologist is more than satisfactory "in the kitchen" (and the bedroom, and the hallway, and the living room…). -SH


	20. Cluedo

Cluedo  
One of my Sherlolly headcannons is that Sherlock and Molly play strip Cluedo. I tried to write it, but I couldn't get it to work out. I officially hold it out as an orphaned plot bunny. The prompt was "Cluedo" courtesy of the lovely Aviatress.  
Sherlock stood nervously in the living room of 221B, hands clasped behind his back. He had been pacing almost continually for the past six hours. He was wearing his pajama pants and dressing gown, a direct contrast to John's tuxedo. John stood up from his post on the sofa, entirely fed up with the constant shuffling back and forth.  
"Sherlock, there isn't much time left until the wedding. I swear, if you don't put on your tuxedo and stop the pacing, I will personally call Molly and have her tell you off." He said, gripping the taller man by the shoulders.  
John tugged his friend to the sofa, pushing him into it forcefully. He returned five minutes later with a box tucked under his arm.  
"If you promise to put on your tux we can play one game of Cluedo."  
Sherlock shrugged, reaching for the game. He spread the board and pieces on the floor, turning the little figurines meditatively in his fingers.  
One hour later, Sherlock was sprawled on his stomach, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  
"But John!" He said exasperatedly,  
"It had to be an outside accomplice. The professor was obviously elsewhere at the time of the crime, but he had motivation. Now the only answer that makes sense is an elite gang of highly competent, highly trained, professional hit men. Obviously, at least two hired men are responsible for the murder and are in league with the professor."  
Sherlock settled backwards on his heels, proud of himself. John shoved his hands through his short hair.  
"Fine." He huffed. "You figured it out."  
Sherlock smirked, rolling his shirtsleeves even further up his arms.  
John caught sight of Sherlock's phone, which had been discarded in the middle of the game.  
The home screen was lit up from a received text which was accompanied by four older ones.  
"Sherlock!" John said, sudden fear in his voice. "What time are we supposed to be at the church."  
"1:30. The wedding starts at 3:00."  
John pulled his phone out of his pocket and groaned. 1:45. Three text messages from his girlfriend Mary, all with the same repeated "Where are you", popped up on screen. Sherlock had reached for his phone at the same time.  
"Five text messages. All from Molly." He moaned.  
Sherlock pulled on his coat as he ran out the door, followed closely by John. He tapped his foot impatiently as they waited for a cab. He grinned suddenly and John burst into a loud laugh.  
"I almost missed my own wedding over a game of Cluedo." Sherlock gasped. "If Molly asks, we were having a very serious discussion on the meaning of marriage."


	21. Proposal

Not really Sherlolly, but it was too fun to resist. The prompt was "Proposal" from the lovely SammyKatz.  
John tightened his grip on Mary's hand as they strolled through the park. It was the day, the day he was finally going to propose. He could feel his elevated heart rate, the feeling of blood rushing through his face. He was sure that Mary would notice that something was up. He felt a little light headed, more nervous than he had felt in a long time.  
"Mary I…there's something I need to tell you. I have felt… incomplete for a long time. I have been depressed at times, I have felt like life was pointless. But I have felt, I have felt for a long time, that the answer is…Sherlock?"  
"Sherlock? The answer to your problem is…Sherlock? John, are you trying to tell me you're gay?" Mary asked, sniffling slightly. "I…support you, but it is a bit of a shock."  
John turned to Mary, eyes wide.  
"I'm not gay. Even my own girlfriend thinks I'm gay." He muttered.  
John reached for the tall figure who was doing his best to sneak away.  
"Why are you here Sherlock?" He asked, voice deceptively calm and quiet.  
"I got bored. I could tell by your shoe choice that you were coming to the park. So I followed you. I figured today would be the day by the way…" Sherlock was cut off by the warning glance John threw at him.  
"You and Molly couldn't…entertain yourselves?" John asked.  
"Molly's out." Sherlock shrugged. "Groceries or something equally as dull. Lestrade is on vacation, most likely some new form of couple's therapy with his wife, and Mrs Hudson is at her sister's. I was really left with no choice."  
John sent him a pointed glance.  
"We've really appreciated the visit Sherlock, but I think we are going to go get some lunch." He said.  
"I could come with you." Sherlock said. "It's Thursday, so I am due to eat something."  
"I think Mrs Hudson left you some biscuits."  
Sherlock took the hint.  
Twenty minutes later, John and Molly were settled comfortably in a window booth at Angelo's.  
"I think we should talk about earlier." Mary said.  
John nodded as his face flushed scarlet.  
"Mary, I was trying to tell you that I love you more than anything or anyone else. You are my life." He got out of the booth, and on one knee. "Will you marry me?" He asked.  
Mary clasped her hands over her mouth, her only response a small nod of the head. John pulled his new fiancée out of the booth and kissed her. They were too happy to notice the lone figure at the table in the corner, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed across his chest.


	22. Rude

The prompt was "Sherlock is rude to someone and Molly tells him off" courtesy of lalala.

Sherlock Holmes had no sense of propriety. It was something most people who dealt with him on a daily basis were accustomed to. They didn't necessarily enjoy his stinging barbs and harsh deductions, but they were par for the course. But when Sherlock interacted with strangers all bets were off.

Sherlock stood stiffly in the middle of the St Bart's Christmas party. He was situated next to the punchbowl, an almost comically uncomfortable expression on his face. Molly stood next to him. She was clenching his hand tightly in her's, not as much as an expression of affection, but more as the final physical barrier to his bolting out of the room and to the street. She stretched to her tiptoes, placing her lips on his ear.

"You've done well Sherlock. Thirty minutes and your done."

He shivered slightly at the touch, which made her grin to herself. Certain aspects of the man she called her husband had changed drastically in the year and a half since his "resurrection".

A young man of around 30 approached the couple.

"Will Jones." He said affably, extending a hand towards Molly. "You must be the lovely Doctor Holmes I have heard so much about. Care to dance?"

Molly's eyes widened slightly, but Sherlock jumped in before she had time to reply.

"She really wouldn't." He said, grip tightening around Molly's hand. "My wife," he drew out the word wife dangerously slowly "doesn't dance with other men. Especially men who have wives in both Hampshire and Leeds. And besides, wouldn't your newest conquest Tina be envious?"

The young man's face darkened and he looked like he was about to challenge Sherlock to a fight.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said.

"Yes you do. Has Tina told you that she's pregnant yet?"

The man's face registered shock and a bit of horror before turning away.

Molly dragged Sherlock out of the party and into the nearby bathroom. She could hear two young nurses chatting nearby and overheard something about "Molly" "impatient" and "shag". She wished that was all that was about to happen.

Molly turned on an unrepentant Sherlock once the door was safely closed and locked.

"What were you doing out there?" She hissed, face red with anger.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and an equally angry look passed over his face.

"What was I doing? I thought you would thank me for what I did. But now I'm the problem?"

Molly took a step closer, face livid.

"It's not what you did. First of all, I can stand up for myself. I'm not going to cheat on you with every git who wants to dance. Secondly, why did you drag Tina into it. She is a sweet girl, and I know people overheard what you said about her."

Sherlock pulled Molly close to him and crashed his lips on hers. She pushed him away.

"Don't think for a second that will get you off the hook. I'm not a blithering idiot who falls apart every time you touch me." She said, a little more breathlessly than before.

She had chosen to ignore the fact that his arm was still wrapped securely around her waist and that their faces were mere inches apart.

"Is that so?" Sherlock asked quietly, pulling her flush to him.

She looked up at him, intent on not losing her focus.

"Yes, it is. Now answer me please. Why did you drag Tina into it."

Sherlock relentlessly advanced, pushing Molly closer and closer to the wall behind her.

"He needed to be told." He said simply.

Molly sighed. By this point she was almost touching the wall. She knew she needed to call him out, but at the moment, her mind was mostly forgetting how to form syllables into words.

"Don't do it again." She murmured as he backed her into a corner.

He shook his head wordlessly.

"Don't flirt with other men." He muttered, lips a fraction of an inch from her ear.

"I didn't flirt. Don't be stupid." She said. He chuckled, a deep sound that reverberated through the tiny bathroom.

"My dear Mrs. Holmes. We both know that is utterly impossible."


	23. Disappointment

The prompt was "disappointment" courtesy of the lovely Tenshi. I can't really resist a happy Sherlolly ending. Sorry.  
It had been six weeks. Six weeks since Sherlock's return. Six weeks since Molly was fired from Bart's for helping him. Six weeks since Sherlock had moved out of Molly's flat and back into Baker Street. Five weeks and six days since he had contacted her.  
The last time he had contacted her was the day after he had moved out. He had sent her a text telling her "I appreciate what you did for me, but please do not assume that our relationship has changed to one of a romantic nature." It was the last she had heard from him. She had seen John a few times, they had even met for coffee, and each time the pity in his eyes was unmistakable. And now, she couldn't care less what Sherlock Holmes was doing, or so she told herself. She was her own master, and so was he. She didn't pine after him anymore. Their time living together insured that. She loved him. She loved him with her heart and her head. And she had thought that he loved her. But she had been mistaken.  
Molly knew there was no point in going to another hospital, no one would hire her. She was infamous, the woman who had been foolish enough to help the detective with the tarnished reputation. Even though it was now known that Moriarty was the liar, not Sherlock, she was still left jobless. She wouldn't be able to return to a career in pathology at all. Her career, her passion, had been taken away from her, and he had never even bothered to say thank you.  
Molly lounged on her sofa for the third day running, reruns of Doctor Who playing quietly. She wasn't really paying attention to the Doctor defeating the shop window dummies, but instead was concentrating her attention on the teacup in front of her. She slowly swished the cold contents of the mug back and forth, unintentionally slopping tea over the edge of the mug and onto the coffee table. The rain was tapping a staccato rhythm on the roof, the grey and drizzly day a mirror of how she felt. She heard a knock at the door and stood, hastily running her fingers through her snarled hair. Her tank top and athletic shorts (which were admittedly higher than mid-thigh) were less than presentable, but she honestly didn't care.  
"Coming." Molly called as she heard another round of quick taps on her door. Molly had absolutely no idea who would bother coming to visit her. Her only guess was her mother, coming to console her "failure" of a daughter. But she was not expecting what she saw at all. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone. He pushed past her, disregarding his sopping state, and hung his coat neatly on one of three coat pegs by Molly's door. He then crossed to where Molly stood at the door, braced himself by the palms on either side of her shoulders, and kissed her roughly.  
"It's absolutely ridiculous." He said, as she stood still trapped between his body and the door. "Why should you be fired? I'm the one who jumped."  
He pressed himself as close to her as possible, kissing her harder and more deeply. His tongue probed her mouth in a way that was, though scientific, not unpleasant. Molly pushed him away from her. She shook her head to clear away the confusion. Why had he been very heatedly snogging her? And why had she let him?  
"Where have you been?" She asked when she finally found her tongue (it was about halfway down Sherlock's throat).  
He looked at her, sudden realization dawning in his eyes. He grabbed her hands and pulled her to the sofa even though she did her best to loosen herself from his grip. He pulled her down into the cushions and rested his head in her lap. She tried to shove him away but he just quirked an eyebrow at her.  
"I don't usually say this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you lose your job. I'm sorry for not contacting you at all. I'm sorry for making you feel like I used you then abandoned you. That was not my intent." He looked up at her and gathered enough confidence to continue.  
"At first, I couldn't bring myself to talk to you. I felt…guilty. I knew it was my fault that you lost your job, and I didn't want to hear you say that it was okay. But then I learned that more of Moriarty's men were in London. I knew that under no circumstances should I contact you." Sherlock felt Molly flinch, but he continued anyway.  
"I knew it was too dangerous. Look what they did to my friends. Think how much worse it would be for…you." He drew a deep breath.  
"They're gone now. It was taken care of. I am truly sorry for any hurt I have caused. If you don't want to be around me, I understand."  
"You're an idiot Sherlock Holmes." Molly said, pushing his head off her lap.  
"I helped you fake your death knowing the consequences full well. I lost my job, I would gladly do more than that. I love you, you git."  
"Why did you do it?" He asked. "If you knew what would happen, why did you do it?"  
Molly shrugged.  
"Pathology means the world to me. But you…you needed me. What else could I do?"  
Sherlock smirked and pulled her lips down to his.  
"Don't let it go to your head." She mumbled around his mouth. He took the opportunity to explore her mouth with his tongue.  
"Too late." He said.


	24. Blankets

The prompt was "Blankets" courtesy of the wonderful, lovely MorbidbyDefault.  
Molly was exhausted. An eighteen hour shift at Bart's (courtesy of the latest case of one Sherlock Holmes) had left Molly with a tiredness that was slowly causing her brain to go numb. It was all she could do to mutter "221B Baker Street" to the cabbie. She somehow managed to stumble up the stairs, push open the door, and discard her clothes heedlessly on the floor before collapsing in an exhausted heap on the sofa. She saw her boyfriend sprawled in an equally undignified manner, but his chosen seat was a little more…interesting. Sherlock had stripped the sofa and armchair of every blanket and pillow and made himself a large pillow bed on the floor. Molly would have almost called it a blanket fort, but she knew Sherlock would have resented the childish term. He was spread-eagled with his head tipped backwards, unruly curls spread over the pillow where his head lay. His eyes were closed, obviously asleep, and he was mumbling something unintelligible. Molly nudged him in the ribs with her toe. Sherlock looked up from his position on the floor, a tired, unreadable look on his face.  
"Long day." He groaned, flopping one hand over his face.

Molly slid off the sofa and onto the bed of blankets and cushions.

"Join me?" Sherlock murmured.

His voice was rendered almost unintelligible with exhaustion and the haze that is the usual result of being woken up. Molly nudged him again, this time in the chest.

"Scooch over." She muttered, her head already resting comfortably on his chest.  
He wiggled slightly, moving just far enough to make room for her slim body, but not far enough to have any of his limbs uncovered. Molly reached for the blanket that was draped across Sherlock's upper body, pulling it across herself. He whimpered slightly at the loss of heat from his bare chest, a pitiful sound that made Molly giggle. She snuggled closer to him, pulling the blanket across the two of them.

Molly woke the next morning slightly unsure why she and Sherlock were cuddling in a blanket fort. She had said it. Sherlock Holmes was cuddling, in a blanket fort, of his own volition. She felt him wriggling next to her and was suddenly cold when he stood up, pulling the blanket that had been unceremoniously draped across them with him. His pajama pants were askew and his hair looked like it had been through a wind tunnel. He looked down at Molly and she could feel the familiar heat rise to her face when she remembered that she was wearing a rather skimpy set of red knickers and a matching bra.  
"I have seen you in a further state of undress than this Molly. I really don't see what you have to be embarrassed about." He said.  
Molly could tell by the sudden look of horror that crossed his face that Sherlock had realized exactly what he had been sleeping on (or in, as it were).  
"This never happened, understand?" He muttered.  
Molly chuckled as she watched him saunter to the kitchen, no indication in his body language of his wounded dignity. Molly stood up and stretched, reaching for Sherlock's dressing gown which was draped across the back of his music stand. She followed him into the kitchen and perched on the counter as he made French toast, their "after case" ritual.


	25. Feelings

The prompt (which is too long to post here) came from the lovely SammyKatz. A little angsty, but good end (I promise).

He had finally done it. Sherlock Holmes had pushed Molly over the edge. He was a jerk almost all the time, an insufferable git quite often, but she always forgave him. But he had finally managed to push her over the edge, and there was no way she could forgive him.

Molly had been terrified for Sherlock's safety ever since the fall. She had reoccurring nightmares that he died, nightmares that she hadn't been there to help him when Moriarty tried to kill him. She had spent three weeks in nervous apprehension when he had left for a case involving a serial killer and he hadn't even called her. She wasn't sure why this surprised her. She wasn't his girlfriend, she wasn't his wife, or his mother. But she had thought that the six months of helping him after the Fall would be enough to account for one call saying "I wasn't hacked to pieces by a psychopath". Apparently not. And then she had gotten the phone call. Lestrade called her, his voice hoarse and tired.

"I'm really sorry Molly." He said. "Sherlock and John were taken hostage last night. We have been getting calls all night. They let us talk to John for a minute. He said Sherlock asked that we call you. He said to tell you something, a message from Sherlock. He said to tell you 'I love you'. I…I'm sorry Molly. We have been working on finding them. I have to go now…" He mumbled something incoherent before hanging up. He loved her, and he was gone. Molly slid down the wall, biting into her fist as the tears slid down her face.

Twenty-two hours (and no updates) later, Molly was called to Scotland Yard. She saw Sherlock and John in Lestrade's office and broke into a run. Lestrade, who was perched on the edge of his desk, gave a nod to John and the two left the room. John stopped to give Molly a brief hug and she gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. Sherlock looked up from his where he was engrossed in his phone.

"Molly." He said simply.

She stood in the doorway, suddenly unsure of what to do. He noticed the look on her face, obviously able to read the mixture of emotions that played across it. She moved towards him, unsure if she was going to hug him or slap his face for all the worry he had caused her. He moved away from her.

"I am very sorry if I have misled you Molly. I…I didn't mean to hurt you. But, when you are in a hostage situation it is always best to show that you have a wife, a girlfriend, anything. It almost always plays on the kidnapper's emotions, makes them more…cooperative. I didn't…I…I don't." He trailed off.

Molly looked at him, horror and utter betrayal flitting across her face.

"I am happy you are okay. But I can't do this anymore. You can't do this to me and expect me to be alright." Molly turned and walked away.

Now, one week later, she had turned in her resignation at Bart's. She had signed an agreement with her landlord to get her out of the rest of her contract and had purchased plane tickets. She couldn't be in London, she couldn't even be in England anymore. She was going to France. Her aunt, a brain surgeon in a leading French hospital, had arranged for her to start a job as a pathologist in a month. But for now, she had one more thing left to do in England.

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his chair. His personal assistant opened the door and he glimpsed a small woman behind her.

"Dr. Molly Hooper for you."

Molly entered his office timidly.

"Hello Miss Hooper." Mycroft said, extending his hand towards her.

"I believe I can arrange for your visa on such short notice."

Molly looked at him confused, but then chuckled dryly.

"You're his brother, of course."

Mycroft smiled grimly.

"Yes, the deductive powers are a family trait. It was fairly simple to figure out. Now, on to business. I could get you the visa, but I really don't think it is for the best. If you are sure you want to leave England, I will do my best to help you."

Molly nodded.

"It is for the best. I need to leave tonight."

Mycroft might be the master of surveillance but Sherlock had a certain amount of the skill himself. He generally only used his "spies" (usually part of his homeless network) to watch those dangerous to him. But in regards to his brother, Sherlock still retained a childish mentality. He had Mycroft under almost constant surveillance. So when Molly Hooper went to visit his brother, Sherlock was well aware of it. But Sherlock was not entirely aware of the intent behind it.

Sherlock barged into his brother' office the day after Molly had visited. He was breathing heavily as if he had run the whole way from Baker St.

"If you're coming about Doctor Hooper it really is too late." Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock bent over Mycroft's desk, hands braced far apart. His face was livid and just a little bit guilty.

"Where. Did. She. Go?" He asked. Each word was a sharp staccato. Mycroft shrugged.

"I would assume France by now." His tone was flippant, but underneath the words there was a deadly urgency that his brother managed to miss.

"She is probably staying in my house in Paris for a week or two before…well, it is irrelevant. I plan to join her there actually."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide.

"No." He hissed, before wheeling sharply and half-running from the office.

"Do you think it worked? Does he actually believe he thinks you would pursue Dr Hooper?" His assistant asked after Sherlock had left the room.

"My brother." Mycroft sighed, "Knows nothing of his own heart. He is hampered by jealousy, remorse, and love but he is too blind to see it. Love is a difficult emotion to deal with. "

Sherlock sat on the family jet, hands steepled beneath his chin. Why was he doing this? Why was he pursuing a pathologist (his pathologist, a voice in the back of his mind whispered insistently) to another country? It would have been much simpler to find a new pathologist at Bart's who was susceptible to flirting. It wasn't the work, he decided. Why had he felt rage, pure, animalistic, rage in the pit of his stomach when he deduced that Mycroft was pursuing Molly? Oh. He had been an idiot. This, he told himself, is why it is better, safer, to be married to his work. He leaned back into his seat, images of Molly flashing through his mind. Her head tipped back in laughter. At that stupid, horrible Christmas party where she had looked beautiful and he had been an absolute fool. When he had told her he needed her. Of course, the time she had forced him to watch her favorite television programs while he hid at her flat. And then when he had told her that he didn't love her. Never had loved her. He slumped forward, head in hands. She hated him now. He was certain.

Molly pulled her wool jacket further around herself as she dug through her purse for the key Mycroft had supplied her. She was grateful for his help, even though she wasn't sure why he had offered her, someone he barely knew, the use of his summer home. She found the key ring and fitted the key to the lock when she heard a voice call her name. Not him. Not here. She turned sharply, hoping for one brief moment that it was someone sent by Mycroft. But it wasn't. Sherlock Holmes stood on the step beneath her.

"Go away Sherlock." She muttered, tears causing her voice to sound hoarser than usual.

"No."

She turned to find him defiantly gripping the balustrade as if she were going to attempt to push him in the busy street.

"I'm not going until you admit you love me."

He knew by the shocked and pained look on her face that his words had been the wrong ones.

"I have to admit it to you?" She said, the only reason she wasn't screaming in an angry rage was the street behind them.

"I have to admit it? You're the intelligent one, deduce it. I have always loved you, but you are an absolute idiot and I can't do it anymore. Now leave. I admitted it so you have to go."

She started to go inside, attempting to slam the door after her, but he grasped her wrist and pulled her next to him.

"I thought of you. The whole time that I was sitting there, chained to a bedpost with a grimy gag in my mouth, I thought of you. You're face was the only thing I could access in my mind palace. You were what kept me going. The minute I was freed again, I thought of you. I'm an idiot for not saying it earlier. I wanted that message to you to be my last words. If I didn't make it out of that nasty room alive, I wanted those three words to be my final legacy. But I'm me. I'm am so intelligent, so cool and collected, but I'm the biggest fool ever born. And when I saw you standing there, I couldn't do it. I denied it. I convinced myself that what I felt was an adrenaline rush, some sort of mad fixation on you. But I was wrong. I love you. I'm sorry. I know you hate me now, and rightly so, but I'd there is anyway you could forgive me, that would be enough. You don't have to love me, just…forgive me."

Molly felt Sherlock lean over to wipe

away the single tear that trickled down her cheek. He allowed his hand to rest there for a moment before withdrawing it.

"You're an idiot. And you do things that are stupid that hurt me. But there is only one thing…one thing that is unforgivable. Don't you ever, ever doubt me again."

Confusion knitted his brows for just a moment before he leaned slightly forward.

"I'm sorry." He murmured, lips inches from her ears.

Molly could feel his hot breath as his lips hovered just above her skin. He kissed her earlobe and down her jaw until he reached her lips.

"Don't you dare doubt me." She whispered.

He closed the gap in between them, his lips molding to hers.

"Let's go home." He said, taking her hands in his.


	26. Easter

The prompt was "Easter". As I am a terrible person, I have forgotten the username of the lovely supplier of the prompt. If it is yours, speak up. Also, this probably sounds idiotic, but I recently saw that it was confirmed that the season 3 air date in the us was confirmed for 2014. Now, this is the PBS air date. Would the BBC America air date be earlier? Yes, I realize this is stupid.  
Molly prodded a sleeping Sherlock in the ribs, but he didn't move or respond. She leaned over and kissed him; he woke up spluttering and gasping, and she laughed when he grabbed at her waist. Molly rolled out of bed, grabbing for her dressing gown which she pulled around her pajama-clad figure. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her back as she bent over their son's crib. It was Easter morning, and there was nothing she wanted more than to curl up next to her husband and sleep. Unfortunately She suddenly caught sight of the clock on the bedside table.  
"Sherlock!" She said, eyes wide. "It's parent's Easter breakfast is at 9:30."  
She rushed over to where he was stretched lazily on the bed, attempting to pull him up by the arm.  
"We could just stay here. I'm tired. And besides, Maeve and William aren't up yet." He said, gesturing to the still sleeping baby in the crib.  
He reached for her waist, attempting to flip over into a more comfortable sleeping position and pull her down next to him at the same time. Molly narrowed her eyes at him.  
"Sherlock Holmes." She said, slapping his upper arm with the back of her hand. "We aren't 'staying here'. Are you honestly suggesting we skip your parent's party?" She asked incredulously. She wasn't sure why she was surprised, to be honest. He was Sherlock after all.  
"It isn't really a party." He muttered. "Besides, if we're lucky, the kids might sleep another hour or so. Half an hour to sleep, half an hour…" He trailed off.  
Molly rolled her eyes.  
"That was the worst last ditch effort I have ever heard." She said.  
Her tone of voice was firmer than she felt. She had honestly been dreading the Holmes Easter breakfast for weeks now. An hour's sleep seemed much preferable to getting dressed up and attending a gathering of people who she mostly didn't like.  
Molly could tell by the look in Sherlock's eyes that he had recognized her inner hesitation.  
"You obviously don't want to go. You didn't purchase a dress as you have in years past, and there is a guilty look on your face." He tugged her wrist and she gave in, flopping down next to him on the bed. He grinned, pleased to have won. Molly pulled the blankets over her head, hoping to block out the light and return to sleep.  
"Half an hour to sleep…" Sherlock said before promptly turning over and falling asleep.  
An hour later, Molly was awakened by the smell of coffee and her daughter Maeve bouncing excitedly on her bed.  
"It's Easter Mummy!" She said when she saw her mother's eyes open slightly. "Daddy is making waffles!"  
Molly captured the little girl in a hug. She made her way to the kitchen, Maeve clinging excitedly to her robe. Sherlock smirked at Molly when he noticed a sudden troubled expression flit over her face.  
"My mother completely understands that you are feeling ill this morning. She says to tell you to drink plenty of water and to force me to 'give you a rest'. Whatever that means. She also said that if it is morning sickness (I think my mother believes the only time women get sick is during pregnancy) that you should call Doctor Hudson straight away. Oh, and Mycroft said that you need to eat something with ginger."  
Molly looked at him reproachfully , but he just shrugged his shoulders.  
"You can't be at fault for a failure of your immune system." He said.  
Thirty minutes later, Molly was cuddled on the sofa next to Sherlock, watching as Maeve hunted eagerly for Easter candy. She ran to her parents with each new discovery. Molly sipped the tea she had made herself (Sherlock always made coffee unbearably strong) and held baby William in her arms. The baby was still groggy, only having woken up a few minutes before. She turned to her husband, who was deep in thought. She was happy they had stayed home, though she wasn't going to tell him that. Molly heard Mrs Hudson climbing the stairs and could smell the food she brought long before she was in the room. Molly smiled slightly when she saw John and Mary in the hallway. They now occupied 221C, giving the Holmes family their own space. Their little son, who was Maeve's age, was hanging onto John's legs. Molly watched as John and Mary argued playfully. Mary was telling John that she deserved a chocolate sundae at 10:45, and John was trying to persuade her that the more she gave in to her pregnancy cravings the worse they would become. Yes, it was good to be at home.


	27. Boyfriend

The prompt was "Maeve gets her first boyfriend and Sherlock is overprotective" from the lovely SallyandMidna

"I don't understand why he is coming here." Sherlock said, disgust evident in his voice.

"I've told you Sherlock, Alfie is Maeve's boyfriend. You should be happy for her. For goodness sake, he's John's son. You've known him since he was a baby."

Molly snaked her arms around Sherlock's neck, stretching on her tiptoes to peck his lips gently. He wrapped one arm around her waist, his face still upset.

"Haven't you heard about John? He was basically a womanizer until he met Mary. How do we know that isn't a genetic trait?"

Molly chuckled at this, and she saw a hint of a smirk on his lips.

"Besides, Maeve is too young to have a boyfriend."

Molly cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Sherlock, she is 17 for goodness sake. She is far from too young. Most of her friends have been dating for at least two or three years."

"Yes Molly, and how many of her friends have STDs? Hmm?"

Molly shook her head, withdrawing her arms from his neck.

"You really are incorrigible. He is terrified of touching her. I really don't think either of them has an STD."

Sherlock shrugged, pushing the last three buttons of his shirt through the buttonholes.

"I guess if you are unconcerned for our daughter's physical and emotional safety, that is your choice."

Thirty minutes later Molly and Sherlock were seated in the kitchen of 221B. John, Mary, and their four children had left Baker Street three years previously. Alfie and Maeve had been inseparable since infancy, and both had taken the move rather hard. Molly and Mary had both predicted early on that the two would become "romantically attached", as Sherlock called it. It had actually taken longer than both had predicted. Sherlock slumped further into his chair, head in hands.

"This is ridiculous!" He said. "If they are so in love, why don't they just get married in four or five years and spare us all the trouble. Why date at all?"

Molly rolled her eyes. Sherlock had been randomly interspersing bits of advice for the last ten minutes as they waited for Alfie to arrive. Maeve was in the bathroom getting ready. Suddenly, Molly heard a tremulous knock on the door.

"Aunt Molly?" She heard Alfie call from the hallway.

"See. They can't date! It is practically incest."

Molly shot him a warning glance and moved to answer the door. Alfie Watson looked exactly like a seventeen year old version of John. His blond hair was close cropped, his blue eyes a mirror of both his father and mother. Sherlock sighed. The handsome, genetic womanizer son of his best friend was dating his daughter.


	28. Molly's Vacation

The prompt was "Molly leaves Sherlock home alone and he has to take care of all the stuff he isn't used to doing" courtesy of the lovely Starship221bBagEnd.  
Molly woke up to the sound of the alarm on her phone, The Beatles singing "Love Me Do" blaring through the previously silent room. She heard Sherlock moan something about "that bloody song" and she rolled over to silence the phone. She only remembered after she had snuggled back into Sherlock that she was supposed to be leaving for a conference.  
"Sherlock." She murmured, flipping over so she could see his face.  
He was already almost asleep. He flopped his arm around her back, his eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. Molly shook him gently.  
"Sherlock." She whispered slightly louder, though still low enough to not wake the baby. "I have to leave in an hour. I have the conference this weekend. Remember?"  
Molly had been planning for this conference for months. She had been asked to speak on pathology. The only thing she was nervous about was leaving Sherlock on his own with Maeve and William. Sherlock groaned and ground his palms into his eyes.  
The next hour was a whirlwind of last minute packing, explaining to Sherlock the exact reason why the microwave should be used for food not toxic experiments, and calling a cab. Molly finally stood on the pavement outside of 221B, her overnight case next to her on the sidewalk. Sherlock was holding Will, who was still sleeping soundly, and Maeve was standing next to them in her nighty. Molly heard the cab before she saw it in the early morning fog.  
"Are you sure you can take care of things while I'm gone? I could just go for my talk…"  
Sherlock cut her off.  
"Molly, I am a perfectly competent adult. I will be fine. Besides, I can always text John or Mary."  
He pulled Molly close by the waist and kissed her gently. She leaned down to kiss baby William before she was attacked by a bear hug from Maeve.  
"If you need me, just call." She said as she slid into the cab.  
"We'll be fine." He said, kissing her once more before the cab pulled away.  
Two days later, Sherlock was perched on the back of a chair with Will in his arms. The baby was sucking contentedly at a bottle. The flat at Baker St had returned to it's pre-Molly chaotic state. Clothing and children's toys were scattered around the floor, food was places food should never be, and take away containers dotted the flat like new interior decor. Maeve was flopped on the sofa, hands and face sticky from the plethora of sweet candies that Sherlock had given her. He looked down to find the baby sleeping. After placing William carefully in his crib (they had had three failed attempts at putting him down with out waking up) Sherlock scooped the sticky little girl into his arms.  
"Time for a bath Miss Maeve." He said, crossing the room in a few long strides. Maeve wiggled in his arms at the word 'bath'.  
"Don' wanna take a bath." She grumbled.  
Sherlock pushed open the bathroom door. The pile of clothes behind the door causing an incredible amount of resistance wasn't usually there. He had no idea how three people (two of whom were quite small) could generate so much dirty laundry in two days. He pulled Maeve's sugar coated teeshirt over her head as he ran her a bath. He was washing Maeve's hair when he saw something he wasn't expecting.  
"What were you doing to your hair Mae-bug?" He asked.  
She shrugged.  
"Mummy told Aunty Mary that she liked your curly hair. I have curly hair too, so I cut her some to keep. It's in my toy chest."  
Maeve's raven hair grew in perfect ringlet curls like her father's, and now at least five of the ringlets that were on the underside of her hair were chopped short.  
"Will she like it?" The little girl asked excitedly.  
"I'm sure she will be very surprised."  
Sherlock lifted Maeve out of the bathtub and wrapped her in a towel before dressing her for bed.  
"If you promise me not to cut your hair again, I will read you a bed time story." Sherlock told her.  
An hour later Sherlock lounged in his armchair, his body curled almost catlike. He heard footsteps on the stairs.  
"I would appreciate some tea Mrs Hudson." He called when the footsteps entered the kitchen. He saw the lights snap on out of the corner of his eye and heard a small gasp.  
"Molly?" He called.  
The little woman walked out of the kitchen, her hands on her hips.  
"I leave you alone for two days. Two days, Sherlock Holmes. And what happens? My entire house is in ruins."  
"Well hello to you too." He muttered.  
"The kids are still alive, right?" She asked.  
"Of course they're alive. Don't you trust me?"  
She sighed.  
"I'm really not sure I should. I told you no toxic experiments in the microwave. I know the smell of henbane."  
Sherlock huffed.  
"One experiment. I made sure they were out of the flat. John took them for ice cream."  
Molly stared him down for a tense minute before chuckling slightly. She leaned forward to kiss him, albeit briefly.  
"You're unbelievable. I hope you know that. And just so you are aware, you are never staying home alone with Maeve and Will for more than an hour ever again."


	29. Concussion

The prompt was "concussion" courtesy of the lovely MorbidbyDefault. If you have a prompt, please leave it as a comment or pm.  
Molly felt herself slowly return to consciousness. It was a strange feeling, her head felt foggy and she was slightly confused. She wiggled about a bit and found that she was situated on the sofa in the morgue. Sherlock had requested the furniture when Molly had discovered that she was pregnant.  
"What happened?" She asked.  
Her voice was thick and she felt her head start to throb.  
"Oh good." John leaned over her. "You woke up before Sherlock got back. I was worried that you would still be passed out when he got here."  
John's words added to Molly's confusion.  
"Did I faint?"  
John nodded, concern in his eyes.  
"Yes, I think you haven't eaten enough lately. That, combined with standing too long, caused you to faint. You have a slight concussion. Whatever we do, we can't tell Sherlock."  
"Tell me what?"  
John groaned, and shot Molly a look that implored her not to tell her husband what had happened. Sherlock saw the pair, Molly prostrate on the sofa with John kneeling next to her, and rushed over.  
"What happened?" He asked, momentarily forgetting the bag of toes that was clutched in his hand.  
"Nothing." Molly said hurriedly. "I was tired and felt like taking a break."  
She hoped he wouldn't inspect her too closely. Sherlock shoved the bag of toes at John.  
"Run the acid experiment. If you can manage it."  
John shrugged and moved to where the beaker of acid was situated on the table. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the sofa next to Molly.  
"You obviously didn't just 'feel tired'. What really happened?" He asked.  
His hands had come to rest on her protruding belly and she smiled at the gesture. He was the same rude, overbearing Sherlock, but he had a sort of gentleness with her. At times it was almost suffocating, but she wouldn't change it for the world.  
"Nothing Sherlock. I'm fine." She said, moving to sit up.  
He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her sodback into the couch cushions. He leaned closer to her and inspected her, his eyes roving over her in a scientific, methodical way.  
"Molly! You have a concussion. What happened?"  
Molly sighed. So much for the plan of not telling Sherlock.  
"Well…I'm…not really sure."  
"John." Sherlock said, voice dangerously quiet and low. "Why does my wife have a concussion?"  
John turned his back to Sherlock.  
"She hadn't eaten enough, which, combined with standing for too long, caused her to pass out. She hit her head gently. She is okay." He said.  
Sherlock's eyes widened and Molly could see the anger flare up in his face.  
"You let her faint and didn't even have the decency to catch her?"  
John shrugged. When Sherlock was like this there really was nothing to say. Sherlock turned to Molly.  
"We're going home. I am unsure that you should even continue to work. Stamford can certainly find someone to fill in for you if you take maternity leave."  
Sherlock scooped her into his arms, deaf to her protests that she was fine and could walk, and carried her bridal style out of the morgue.  
John chuckled from where he sat forgotten in front of the beaker of acid and slowly decomposing toes. The next two months would certainly be interesting.


	30. Return

The prompt asked for "a brief fluff on Sherlock's return, maybe Molly initiating a kiss" from the lovely lalala.  
"You never really get over death Molly, you just get used to it. At first you think of them every waking moment and it hurts all the time. Then it is a little less, and a little less, until you can live without feeling like you are the Tin Man, living without a heart."  
Molly had never understood what her mother had meant. But the day Sherlock died she understood. She had spent three weeks curled up in her flat. She had considered quitting Bart's. Walking past that spot, being under that roof everyday had been maddening. But she grew used to it. She grew used to not seeing him swagger in like he owned the place. She grew used to being respected, being asked for her opinion by someone who valued it, she even grew used to having guys flirt with her without wanting the hypothalamus of a heroin addict. It wasn't to say she didn't miss Sherlock or wasn't sad about his death. But life goes on.  
Molly saw the doors of the morgue swing open in her peripheral vision, though she didn't watch to see who walked through them.  
"I feel I must apologize for not coming sooner."  
Molly put her head down on her desk. She couldn't do this again. Three months she had delusions, three months she thought she heard him, saw him pacing in front of her flat or Bart's. She couldn't go through that again. She turned slowly. And there he was.  
At first, Molly wasn't sure what to do. A few tears trickled down her cheeks as she sat for a minute in disbelief. And then she ran. She ran across the morgue floor faster than she had thought possible. She stopped just short of running into him.  
"You were dead." She said, looking him in the eyes.  
He looked at her for a second.  
"Death's a tricky thing." He chuckled dryly. "I guess I was dead, in a way."  
"Were you there? Those times I thought I saw you, heard you."  
"Obviously."  
In that brief moment, Molly made an impulsive decision. She twined her arms firmly around his neck, wrapping her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck. She tugged his head closer to hers and pressed her lips to his.  
At first he didn't respond, the mixture of surprise and uncertainty rendering him rigid and still. A second later, just when she was beginning to regret what she had done, he relaxed. He backed up against the wall, tugging her closer by an arm around her waist. Her legs were in between his which came as close to eradicating the gap between them as possible. He broke away for a second, his lips hovering above hers. She smiled at him and she felt him crash his lips back to hers. His hands roamed her back before settling just above her bum. Molly heard John enter the morgue and tried to shimmy out of Sherlock's grip. He tightened his grip on her, keeping her pulled snugly against his chest.  
"Well this is more…touchy-feely than when you came back to Baker St."  
John left the room chuckling.


	31. Tattoo

The prompt was "Tattoo" from the lovely SweetMolly.  
Molly woke to a cold flat, an insistent rapping at her front door, and Toby meowing incessantly less than a centimeter from her ear. Molly tumbled out of bed while in the process of shooing away Toby. She could only hope that whomever was at the door didn't hear the loud crash and the under-the-breath swearing. She reached for an oversized uni sweatshirt that was tangled amidst the blankets on her bed. It was her favorite because Sherlock had given it to her in a moment of contrition after almost getting her fired from Bart's. Well, he hadn't really given it to her, but it wasn't a hard deduction since the sweatshirt proudly bore his alma mater and smelled like him. The gift had mysteriously appeared in her flat one morning, and had been her favorite ever since. She only spared a minute to ponder why her flat was similar in temperature to the morgue before the persistent rapping at her door reminded her why she had gotten up in the first place.  
"Coming!" She yelled, tumbling over Toby's food bowls in her haste to get at the door.  
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung in her hallway, and was beyond grateful that her hair wasn't a tangled mass. Molly pulled open the door to see Sherlock standing shivering on the other side. There was no one she had been expecting less than Sherlock, who stood gazing at her with his hands on his hips. She thought she could detect recognition and even a bit of pride on his face at the sight of the sweatshirt that was tugged past her thighs, but she wasn't sure. The dilated pupils were obviously a result of the dim light of the hall outside her flat.  
"Sh…Sherlock? What are you doing in my flat at 1:00 am?" She asked.  
"Electricity is out through a lot of London, but we still have it at Baker St. John sent me to get you while he picks up Mary and Lestrade. I gather that yours is out as well."  
The chill that hung throughout her house suddenly made sense. Molly tried to switch on the light, to make sure, but nothing happened. The dark was pervasive, the only things illuminating the area were the light of the moon and Sherlock's phone. The detective followed her into the chilly flat.  
"You can get some things around. Mrs Hudson offered up Baker St, so you can come stay with us until your power is back.  
Twenty minutes, five of which were spent in whirlwind packing and awkward collisions in the dark (who knew how incredibly easy it is to grope someone unintentionally when you can't see) led to the pair ending up in Baker St. Molly was cuddled on the floor in front of the blazing fire that John had built in their absence. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, face unreadable. He was perturbed about something, Molly had no idea what, and rebuffed any attempt at conversation. Mary Morstan sat uncomfortably in an armchair that was pulled up next to the fire. She was wrapped in one of John's jumpers. John had gone out five minutes before to retrieve Lestrade.  
"I think I'm going to go upstairs." Mary announced to the room at large. Molly glanced up from the book she was perusing to wish her friend a good night, Sherlock barely moved a muscle. Mary made her way to John's bedroom, leaving the two in an uncomfortable silence.  
"I think I would like to take a shower." Molly said after five minutes of rereading the same page. She watched Sherlock expectantly for a moment, but he barely glanced up at the sound of her voice.  
"Sherlock, you're going to have to show me where the bathroom is."  
He sighed and hauled himself off the couch. She trotted to keep up as he strode across the room in a few large steps.  
Molly could feel the frustration of the last few hours melt away as the hot water pelted her skin pleasantly. She wrapped a large, fluffy towel around herself before remembering that her clothes were packed in the tote bag she had brought with her. The bag was nowhere in sight. Molly didn't remember moving the bag before she had taken her shower, so she could only assume that Mary had come in while she was in the shower and taken it. The two women frequently shared clothes, so the idea didn't surprise her. Molly walked out of the bathroom quietly. She could hear John and Lestrade's voices in the living room, so she knew which room to avoid. She was walking down the hallway, clutching her towel tightly, when she heard Sherlock's door slam loudly. There was a sharp intake of breath from behind her and she turned around slowly. Sherlock stood stock still in the hallway, eyes wide, blushing for what was most likely the first time in his life. Molly tugged the towel up higher on her chest before realizing that the motion made it ride higher on her thighs as well.  
"Uhm…Mary took my tote…and I uh." She trailed off.  
"I didn't know you have a tattoo."  
They stood there, staring awkwardly at each other for a minute before Molly's voice caught up with her thoughts.  
"I got it when my friend Liza got cancer. She liked butterflies."  
Molly's hand had reached up to absentmindedly trace the pattern on her left shoulder. A butterfly was perched on the word "Life", the letters were curly calligraphy. Molly realized that the motion of her hand caused the towel to droop and quickly yanked it back to it's former position. Things would certainly become more awkward if she inadvertently flashed Sherlock Holmes. He shook his head suddenly as if to break himself out of a certain line of thought.  
"You can have some clothes to sleep in." He said, gesturing towards his bedroom. "John and Lestrade have taken up permanent residence in the living room, so you could stay here or go up to John's room."  
Molly blushed at the unintended  
come-on. She followed him into his bedroom, staying only long enough to reach for the proffered boxer shorts and sweatshirt. She retreated to his walk-in closet to change. She was passing through his room when he stopped her suddenly.  
"How old were you?" He asked.  
"How old was I when?"  
He reached for her hand, pulling her to sit next to him on the bed before hurriedly ceasing the contact.  
"How old were you when your friend died, when you got the tattoo."  
"I never said she died."  
He sighed, looking her full in the eyes.  
"It's obvious Molly. The sentiment of the tattoo makes it clear that you received it either shortly before or shortly after she died. Her favorite butterflies, combined with the word life make it completely obvious."  
Molly sat back in the bed (she was sitting in his bed, wearing his boxers, this night couldn't possibly get weirder) and tugged a blanket around her shoulders.  
"Liza and I were best friends from primary school on. She was diagnosed with leukemia when she was seventeen. She was really brave, she went into remission after a year, the doctors said she was going to be fine. But it came back. It was three weeks before her nineteenth birthday when she learned that she had six weeks to three months to live. The day she turned nineteen we came to London and got matching tattoos. She died a week later."  
Molly realized she had been staring at her hands, twisting and folding them as she talked. She felt tears prick against her eyelids, a sob caught in the back of her throat. She hadn't thought about it in so long. It had long since ceased to be painful when she caught sight of the tattoo in the mirror. But it all came rushing back. She felt two twin tears course down her cheek, and suddenly she felt Sherlock wrap his arms around her.  
"I'm sorry." He said. The words sounded foreign, but she could tell he meant them. "I shouldn't have asked."  
"No. It was…it was good. I haven't talked about it, about her, in a long time."  
Molly returned Sherlock's hug (she knew he would be averse to the term) before climbing off his bed.  
"Goodnight Sherlock." She mumbled quietly as she walked quietly out the door.  
"Goodnight Molly." He called after her.


	32. Benedict Cumberbatch

The prompt was "Molly likes Benedict Cumberbatch and Sherlock is jealous" courtesy of the lovely 4UISUNI2.  
Sherlock trudged up the steps to 221B, pushing his heavy coat off his shoulders as he went. It had been an incredibly long day (38 hours, really) and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with Molly next to him and not wake up until the afternoon. He pushed open the door to the dimly lit flat, the sound of the television no louder than a murmur in the background. Molly was cuddled on the sofa, his purple shirt wrapped around her, with a glass of wine gripped in her hand. Sherlock smiled to himself. He had a weakness for Molly wearing his clothes (a fact she was well aware of, and used to her advantage constantly). He moved to join her on the sofa, pulling her feet onto his lap. The easiest way to ensure that Molly was in a good mood was to give her a foot massage. Molly glanced up briefly from the film she was watching to whisper a quick hello. She didn't kiss him hello, which was unusual. It was only then that the television received his notice.  
"Again with this film Molly? I know you don't even like science fiction."  
He was right. Molly was a period piece, Jane Austen, romance type of girl. But there was one sci-fi movie that had garnered her attention.  
"I know you just watch it for the villain." He huffed.  
"He's a very talented actor who happens to look exactly like my husband. And besides, the plot is quite good." She said, attempting to refocus her attention on the film.  
"You have watched the film eight times Molly. You never even watched the first Star Trek film, or the original series."  
Sherlock edged closer to her on the sofa. He was now situated so that she was practically sitting in his lap. His hands were slowly tracing up and down her sides, but Molly didn't seem to notice.  
"This obsession with this pretty boy Thespian really has to come to an end. I have no idea what you see in him." The last sentence was muttered under his breath.  
"What does this Crumblebread actor have that I don't? He most certainly can't do this." He said, slowly massaging her stomach and breasts. He rubbed her neck until he reached her face and leaned over to kiss her, but Molly pulled back.  
"Trying to watch!" She squeaked.  
By this time he had crowded Molly to the very edge of the sofa and he was mere inches from her.  
"I have always had a weakness for film villains. I just enjoy his work." Molly said, deciding to leave out the hours she and Mary had spent searching Youtube for interviews of Benedict (and the Star Trek shower scene). She noticed a sudden change in Sherlock's demeanor, a twinkling in his eyes where there had previously been only possessive jealousy. He leaned as close as possible, their upper bodies now touching. Molly could feel his breath on her ear. He kissed her pulse, pressing his upper body and torso flush against her while simultaneously managing to pop the first few buttons on the shirt she wore.  
"I could be the villain if you want." He said, voice almost a low growl.  
Molly giggled at his attempt to be seductive. Sherlock rolled his eyes before picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder, holding her steady by a hand on her bum. He walked purposefully towards their bedroom, only stopping to switch off the television.


	33. Unicorns

The prompt was "unicorns" courtesy of the lovely Whenthebirddies.

"A case." Sherlock muttered under his breath as he paced around his flat.

"Three and a half weeks without a case. My brain is going to wear itself to ruin."

Molly looked up from her perch on the sofa where she was trying to read "Sense and Sensibility".

"You could always take the one my nephew offered."

He glared at her.

"Really Molly? A tricycle thief? I think I would rather my brain wear down to nothing and end up a blithering idiot. Your niece honestly suggested that Santa Clause is to blame."

Molly shrugged, turning back to her book.

Molly realized about an hour later that Sherlock had gone quiet. She glanced up to ensure that he wasn't silently destroying everything she owned, so as to understand the connection between possessions and emotions (it was an experience she didn't care to go through again). Instead, his head was bent over her laptop, his curls flopping into his face, and a mug of tea at his elbow. She didn't even know Sherlock made tea…

"Did you know that the national animal of Scotland is the unicorn?" He asked. His voice sounded as normal as if he had asked her if she knew the telephone number for the Chinese takeout down the street.

"Um…no. I can't say I did."

"Also, what most ancient peoples believed to be unicorn horns were in reality, narwhal tusks."

Molly just inclined her eyebrows slightly at the newest revelation. She moved to where he was curled in his armchair, and settled precariously on the arm.

"What's brought on the newfound interest in unicorns?" She asked.

His web browser was open to three different tabs. The first was a web search for "unicorn mythology". The second was a unicorn Wikipedia page and the third was a YouTube video of a 'unicorn sighting'. He shrugged.

"That strange movie that you watched with your niece Eva. As the account in the film was obviously untrue to original mythology, and as I have absolutely nothing better to do, I have been forced to read the accounts of 'horned beasts like horses running swiftly through the meadows' to garner an accurate understanding of the myths. I have added unicorns to the stable in my mind palace."

He looked at Molly as if the whole thing was rather obvious.

"You felt the need to do at least an hour's worth of research because you felt that the account of unicorns presented by an animated children's film was inaccurate. The movie was about fairies for goodness sakes. They rode around in carriages made of moonshine drawn by purple unicorns whose manes were made of candy floss."

Molly chuckled, leaning over to kiss Sherlock swiftly.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

Molly padded to their bedroom, leaving Sherlock bent over her laptop typing "physics of candy floss unicorn manes" into Google.


	34. Allergic Reaction

The prompt was "Allergic Reaction" courtesy of the lovely MorbidbyDefault. Yay for silly fluff!  
John was a doctor, a good one. He knew the warning signs of an allergic reaction. He recognized Sherlock's sudden sweating, shortness of breath and increased heart rate (as evident by his suddenly flushed complexion) right away. John pulled Sherlock aside from where the two had been standing next to Molly.  
"Sherlock, you're having a reaction. Did you know that you're allergic to horses?"  
The detective shrugged. John didn't need Sherlock's skills to see through his facade.  
"You knew you were allergic and you came anyway? Why?" He asked, shocked by the foolishness of his friend.  
"Molly said…"  
John chuckled, then broke into a hearty laugh, which cut Sherlock off mid sentence.  
"You came to impress Molly Hooper. You came to a riding stable when you knew you were allergic because Molly likes horses. You've got it for her!" John's voice was gleeful.  
Sherlock shushed him vigorously.  
"Don't be an idiot John." He muttered.  
Molly trotted over to the pair, her curves (usually barely noticeable) were accentuated by the tight riding pants. John noticed Sherlock's eyes following her as she moved. He hiccuped, doing his best to hold in a loud burst of laughter at Sherlock's obvious ogling.  
"Are you alright Sherlock?" Molly asked when she found the two men, concern in her eyes.  
"I'm perfectly fine. John and I will be over in a minute." He said stiffly.  
Molly walked away hesitantly.  
"I don't think the way to get her to go out with you is to have an allergic reaction."  
Sherlock sent him a withering glare.  
"I don't want to 'go out' with Molly Hooper. Just give me some ibuprofen. I'm fine."  
John retrieved the requested drug from his medical bag in the car.  
"Here you are, lover boy." He tossed the pill bottle at his scowling flatmate.  
Ten minutes later John and Molly were riding side by side, chatting and laughing comfortably. Sherlock, however, was farther back. A permanent scowl graced his face. His horse, a yearling bay named Viola, was pulling against the bit, which left Sherlock with no choice but to stay away from the others. He heard Molly's clear laughter followed by John's deeper chuckle and somehow managed to set his face in an even deeper frown than before.  
"Are you sure?" Molly giggled.  
"Absolutely. He's like a primary school boy. Did you know he's allergic to horses?"  
Molly gasped, a devious grin suddenly spreading across her face.  
"I think the pants really did it though. You should have seen it."  
Molly's face flushed a brilliant shade of scarlet. Suddenly, they heard Sherlock approach from behind them.

"Are you sure your horse is alright?" John asked, all innocence and concern.

"She's much better now, thank you."

Sherlock didn't notice when John dropped behind them (though Molly did). Molly turned quickly in her saddle.

"Thanks John!" She mouthed.  
He winked at her before turning his horse in the opposite direction.


	35. Molly's wedding

The prompt was "Molly marrying someone else, but Sherlock kidnaps her on her wedding day." from the lovely Freewaygirl. Warning, very OOC Sherlock.  
There were five hour. Five hours until she, Molly Hooper, married Silas Bradford. And yet, she was unexcited. In fact, she felt a wave of nausea sweep over her whenever she even thought about the wedding. She wasn't sure why she was going through with it, but she had to. She had to do this. Besides, Silas was a wonderful man. He would grow to love him. Wouldn't she?  
Molly heard a rap at her door and saw her mother sweep grandly through.  
"Molly dear, Silas is here."  
Molly turned frantic eyes towards her mother.  
"Keep him out mum. Please!"  
"You know that superstition is absurd nonsense. Besides, you're not even wearing your dress."  
"Please."  
Molly hoped her mother would listen, but with Mrs Hooper it could go either way.  
"Fine dear. You're just being silly though."  
Her dejected mother shut the door and Molly could hear her explaining to the groom that 'Molly is being absolutely ridiculous,but…'  
Molly glanced toward the window and shrieked before immediately clasping a hand over her mouth. A man, dressed head to toe in black with a black scarf pulled around his face, stood outside the window on the fire escape. Another man, obviously the first man's partner, stood behind him holding a…blindfold? The first man ducked gracefully through the window, his accomplice followed (and promptly tripped over his own feet).  
"Sorry Molly, you're coming with us." The first man said, voice obviously disguised.  
Molly fainted for the first time in her life.  
Molly woke up an unknown amount of time later to hear bickering above her. She was laid carefully on a sofa, a blanket pulled up to her chin. The room definitely seemed familiar.  
"I told you the whole dressing in black/kidnapping thing was a bad idea." A voice said above her.  
"But John…we look so cool!"  
John? Sherlock? No…not today.  
"She's awake." She heard John whisper. He tried to surreptitiously sneak out of the room.  
"Oh no you don't! Get back here John Watson!" Molly called after him, but the doctor broke into a run and dived through the first door he saw.  
Sherlock turned to her, a mixture of pride and fear on his face.  
"What in the name of all things sacred do you think your doing Sherlock?" Molly said with more force than the consulting detective had believed she had in her body.  
"Liberating you…at least that's the term I prefer. John said kidnapping. He uses such clichés, it's frankly rather irritating."  
Molly narrowed her eyes at him.  
"And why exactly are you…liberating me on my wedding day?" She asked.  
"First, you obviously don't love this moronic Silas whatshisface. Second, I had a black morph suit in my size and one in John's size. It was obviously a good idea to give them a test run. Third, I love you and don't want you to marry that idiot. Fourth, I wanted to brush up on my kidnapping skills."  
Sherlock rattled off his list at rapid fire pace.  
"Uhm you…what?" Molly squeaked.  
"Need to brush up on my kidnapping skills. It is an underrated but valuable talent."  
"Back up one." Molly said.  
She was beginning to doubt what she had believed she had heard.  
"I love you and don't want you to marry an idiot you don't love, or the bit about the morph suits? I don't remember the exact order."  
"As cool as it is that you and John have morph suits, I was talking about the other choice."  
He shrugged noncommittally as if it had been the least important item on the list.  
"I do. And I don't. And you shouldn't. "  
Molly looked at him, more confused than before, but shrugged it off.  
"Sherlock, you should have told me this six months ago when I started dating Silas. It is our wedding day. I can't just jilt him at the altar."  
"Why not? Anyways, we aren't at the altar. As far as I know, there is no social mores that prohibit jilting someone from Baker Street."  
Molly rolled her eyes.  
"You know what I mean. I can't just abandon him."  
"Would it help if I told you he abandoned his first wife when she got cancer, that he exhibits psychotic tendencies, and that his favorite drink is a caramel macchiato?"  
Molly was understandably stricken, but for some reason she was only able to fixate on the last of Sherlock's revelations.  
"What does his drinking a caramel macchiato have to do with it?"  
"Nothing. I just found it to be a strange and figured you would want to know. After all you should know the worst about your future spouse."  
Molly gave a confused shake of the head.  
"Uhm…yes…I would say those things would change my mind. Except for the macchiato. It's irrelevant."  
Sherlock leaned forward and brushed Molly's hair from her eyes. He kissed her gently, one long arm twined round her back protectively.  
"How did you know all this?" She asked, suddenly pulling away and looking into his eyes.  
"It's irrelevant. Though you might want to clear the Internet memory on your laptop for your own wellbeing."  
Sherlock grimaced at the memory and leaned in to kiss Molly once more.


	36. Wedding Dance

The prompt was "Sherlock and Molly dance at John's wedding, and their dance doesn't match the song" from a lovely anon over on tumblr. I finally restarted my tumblr after it was mysteriously deleted.  
The fairy lights twinkled gently, the pinpricks of light illuminating the otherwise dark garden. John and Mary Watson danced slowly under the largest cluster of lights. Couples mingled on the outskirts of the dance floor, ladies giggling over the cuteness of the newlywed couple and men talking softly in groups. One solitary couple stood apart from the rest. The man's hands were rested on his hips and he was doing his best to ignore his partner next to him. The woman was inclined slightly towards her companion, murmuring things quietly, to which he would give a curt nod of acquiescence.  
"Do you see the two of them?" A girl remarked from where she stood next to her acne prone adolescent boyfriend. She was a relative of the bride.  
"He's absolutely insufferable. She's nice enough, but she won't leave his side. Absolutely smitten I guess."  
She assumed an air of superiority, even though she was only fifteen and the object of her poorly masked scorn was twice her age.  
"I would never marry a man like that. Their wedding must have been horrendous. He's just so rude. The poor dear probably doesn't…"  
Another couple, this time closer to the pair on the fringes of the dance floor, were also remarking on the oddness of the best man and his quiet wife.  
"She seems so quiet. A handsome man like that could do better."  
The lady's husband, the fourth in a long line which grew successively younger as the lady herself aged, inclined his head deferentially.  
"Yes dear. You're absolutely right darling."  
The strains of the music changed, and the newly-made Mr and Mrs Watson left the dance floor.  
"I guess it's our turn." Molly said, practically dragging her husband from the edge of the party to the dance floor. She heard the music increase in volume, and quirked am eyebrow at the strange selection. An orchestra version of Bittersweet Symphony. Interesting,not really what she was expecting for a wedding selection. Before she knew exactly what they were doing, Sherlock had swept her into his arms and up on her toes. Seconds later, they were engaged in a swirling Viennese waltz, paying no heed to the admiring glances from the couples that ringed them. No matter their faults, they could dance. And dance they did.


	37. Kidnapped

Prompt was "Molly is Kidnapped" courtesy of the lovely DuskTillDawn95.  
Sherlock rubbed his eyes groggily. His phone was beeping repeatedly next to his ear, the alert for a text message blaring almost constantly. He reached his hand from under the blankets, slapping for the phone. He was still half asleep. Sleep was a ritual he didn't usually indulge in, preferring instead to spend time in his mind palace which was almost as relaxing. But at times like this, after just solving a particularly grueling case, he was ready to shut his mind down completely. Four of the six texts on the screen of his phone were from Lestrade. The first read  
-Kidnapping. Urgent come at once.  
The rest were a variation on the theme. He rolled his eyes. Kidnappings were not really his area.  
The next was from John.  
-Come on Sherlock. Get down here. JW  
The next though was the one that forced him to roll swiftly out of bed and to the floor, reaching for his clothes that were scattered haphazardly about.  
-It's Molly Sherlock. They've got Molly-JW.  
Sherlock was at Scotland Yard faster than he had previously thought possible. He saw Lestrade huddled behind his desk, head in hands. A young detective (Tobias Gregson, Sherlock thought) was talking quietly. John was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, face ashy. Sherlock swept into the room.  
"Why weren't you here earlier?" Lestrade croaked, taking out his anger, fear, and frustration on Sherlock.  
"Sleeping." The detective muttered, striding to the desk where a plethora of papers and pictures were stacked.  
"It happened last evening. Stamford was in earlier and he said that he walked down to a pub with her and some others. They parted ways at the pub and Molly was seen heading home. She apparently saw someone that she knew, because she stopped and talked to them. That was the last Stamford saw."  
"What an idiot. What kind of a man doesn't even walk a woman home? This is London for heaven's sakes. The acquaintance, or whomever it was, do we have a description?"  
Lestrade shrugged.  
"Stamford said a tall bloke, he thought blond though it was dark out. Muscular build with a sharp profile."  
Sherlock nodded curtly before turning on his heel.  
"Bring Stamford in. We need to have a chat."  
Thirty minutes later, Sherlock sat across from a sleep-mussed Stamford.  
"This man, was he swimmer-muscular or bodybuilder-muscular?"  
Stamford stuttered a bit, doing his best to cast his memory back to the swift glimpse he had gotten outside of the pub.  
"Well?" Sherlock pressed impatiently. "It is of vital importance. There are any number of kidnappers, but only three that I can think of that are in the London area, blond, sharp profiled, and tall. One of them is morbidly obese, so we can rule him out. That leaves two. Now think."  
Stamford pondered for a moment.  
"Swimmer I would say. He was tall and muscular, but kind of lean."  
Sherlock groaned in frustration.  
"I have seen his work before. The demands came in ten minutes ago. We have fifty minutes left to comply."  
"What were the demands?" Sherlock growled.  
He had been reiterating the question for the past three minutes.  
"We'll work it out Sherlock!" Lestrade sighed.  
Sherlock shoved his hands through his curls, huffing impatiently.  
" .Me." He said slowly.  
Lestrade looked at him pityingly.  
"You, Sherlock. They want you to leave the country."  
"Fine."  
Five minutes saw Sherlock hailing a cab, arm outstretched. He mumbled an address and the cab sped away.  
"Do you think it will work? Will they really let her go?" John asked from where he stood at the window.  
"We can only hope." Was Lestrade's grim reply.  
Molly Hooper knew the affects of anesthesia. The cloudy head, heavy limbs, all were much more than a slight hangover from her trip to the pub. She wiggled about, unsure of her surroundings. Zip ties bit into her tender wrists and similar restraints tugged at her ankles when she attempted to move.  
"Don't bother struggling darling, it isn't going to help." She heard a man say from somewhere above her.  
His voice was smooth and deep, the accent cultured, though not English. Irish, perhaps. She looked up to see the man seated in front of her, his back to her. A computer screen threw a bit of light, but Molly was unable to see her surroundings.  
"A friend of mine made the mistake of underestimating you. But the consulting detective has shown that he does care for you, that you do count. So I won't underestimate you."  
"Why?" Her voice was hoarse, the affects of anesthesia still discernible.  
"Jim was so…predictable. 'Jump or they die'. Where's the fun in that?"  
Molly was confused.  
"Have you ever been hunting darling?"  
He watched for an almost imperceptible shake of the head.  
"It's addictive. The thrill of the chase, lulling your victim into a false sense of security, then the kill. Moving in when you are unexpected. It's a beautiful thing. That's what I am doing with Holmes. He feels safe. If he leaves the country then I will release you. And I will, after all darling, I am a man of my word. But I will hunt him down, track him country to country without a rest. He will know how it feels to be pursued. And he will die having realized that there is no escape."  
Molly saw the man get up from the computer and cross to a window.  
"Oh look. There he goes. Let the games begin."  
What the man had failed to notice (or perhaps what he had deemed unimportant) was that the cab sped away, leaving a dark figure lurking in the shadows. He had also failed to notice (perhaps due to his premature victorious speech) that said dark figure had been steadily drawing near to the empty home in which he and Molly were situated. But his final mistake was missing the sound of the door being pushed slowly open.  
There are two problems with gloating speeches. The first is that the orator is distracted, leaving himself almost entirely open to attack. The second is that if you do fall prey to aforementioned attack, you look quite stupid. And Molly's kidnapper had left himself open to both.  
It hadn't been hard for Sherlock to deduce that Molly was in the empty house. If the kidnapper was part of Moriarty's gang (and Sherlock knew he was when he heard the demands) then he would want to watch the proceedings. The obvious choice of location was the empty house across the road. The difficult part was gaining access without being noticed. Luckily for Sherlock, he was so wrapped in gloating that access became rather simple. Sherlock crouched over Molly (she was lying in a dark corner and had no idea who he was) and picked up her hands. He traced the letters of his name into her palm.  
"Really, this is the worst kidnapping I have ever been involved in. No guard at the door? No gag? I believe you've gone soft. Do you even have a gun?"  
The kidnapper turned from where he stood in the window.  
"Yes. I do." He brandished the weapon.  
His form was discernible thanks to the street lights at his back.  
"This display of affection is beneath you though. Coming in here to save the woman you love like a gallant knight." He chuckled darkly.  
Sherlock smirked as light suddenly flooded the room.  
"You don't understand me at all. A gallant knight would be stupid and come alone. But I am not a gallant knight. And I came with the whole of Scotland Yard."  
The next ten minutes were a melee of people rushing about. Several people moved to apprehend the criminal, who tried his best to jump out the window before a burly officer clapped both hands on his back. Other people rushed to Molly, but Sherlock crouched next to her, shooing away the others. He accepted a pocket knife that was held out to him and sliced the ties on Molly's hands and the slightly larger restraints on her ankles. He chafed the skin where the ties had sat.  
"If you hurt one hair on her head, if there is a single welt, you will not make it out of here alive." He growled.  
Sherlock turned to Molly, gently helping her stand up.  
"C'mon Molly, we're going home."


	38. Jack Harkness

The prompt was "Sherlock sees Molly with Jack Harkness" from the lovely SammyKatz.  
Sherlock wasn't jealous. Jealousy would imply feelings that he didn't feel, obviously. For instance, if he had happened to see Molly Hooper sitting next to a rather handsome man in a Starbucks it wouldn't bother him at all. That was Molly's right. And if he happened to duck into said Starbucks, follow Molly and the mystery man to Molly's flat, and then witness said mystery man kiss Molly (rather lingeringly) on the cheek, it wouldn't bug him at all. Even if the kiss was rather close to the corner of Molly's mouth, and even if she did flush up at the contact like she did when he complimented her. It didn't bother him. Why should it?  
Sherlock was exhausted. He could go for weeks on little food and even less sleep in pursuit of a case, but when the case was over he was left craving mental stimulation of any sort which translated into physical weariness. He was slumped in an armchair in Baker Street, gun clenched tightly in his hands. The only movement in his body was when he periodically raised his arm to shoot grumpily at the wall. The loud bang was enough to raise him momentarily from his boredom, but he soon relapsed into his moody reverie. None of this had to deal with Molly Hooper or the unknown man, of course. He was merely bored. He heard the crash of broken glass and a loud cry of 'Sherlock!' from the flat below. Hit a window again. Shooting with his eyes closed was probably not the best idea. He reached for his coat which had been heedlessly cast on the floor. Sherlock trotted swiftly down the stairs, barely making it out of the flat as he heard the sound of the landlady marching angrily towards the stairs he had just vacated. He hailed a nearby taxi, muttering the address to St Bart's purely from habit.  
Molly perched on the edge of the table in the morgue.  
"No really Jack…he would never do that!"  
"I'm telling you Molly, I saw him walk in, he followed us to your apartment. He likes you."  
Molly rolled her eyes.  
"He's Sherlock. He's oblivious. You saw someone who looked like him."  
At that moment the doors opened and the man himself walked quickly into the morgue. The only two occupants were Molly Hooper (who was giggling) and her male companion from the coffee shop. Sherlock strode past the pair. To an average observer his demeanour was seemingly unchanged. But Jack Harkness was no average observer when it came to love triangles. He quickly noted the aggressive stride, the hostile turn of his shoulders, and the slight sneer that graced Sherlock's face as he passed the two of them. He had been involved in enough uncomfortable affairs to know when someone was boiling with jealousy. And being Jack, he decided to milk it for what it was worth. After all, he might be able to help Molly get the boyfriend she had been mooning over. A possessive snog at the very least.  
"Well Molls," he said, leaning closer to where Molly was seated on the counter so that their upper bodies were almost touching. "I'm going to get some lunch. Do you want me to bring you something?"  
Molly shrugged. The motion brought them into contact, her chest brushing his briefly. Not that Sherlock cared. He was VERY interested in the algae sample he was examining.  
Jack leaned forward to brush his lips against Molly's cheek, a typical form of affection for the two (it really was toned down from his usual behaviour), but briefly kissed her lips instead. Molly could feel her face flush, not as much from the kiss (she had known Captain Jack Harkness for quite a while and was used to him being a walking come-on) but more because Sherlock was in the vicinity to witness it. Jack tucked some hair behind her ear, winked suggestively at her, and swaggered out of the morgue with his hips swaying.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"He's in a relationship. Lots of relationships, actually. He's not interested in you, except for maybe sleeping with you. I wouldn't be flattered though, when it comes to sex he doesn't seem to be picky. The flirting is habitual and pathological, possibly from a superiority complex, more like from excessive libido."  
Molly looked up from the paperwork she had started, startled by the sudden, lengthy deduction.  
"What are you talking about?"  
"This new love interest. I wouldn't pursue it."  
Molly shook her head. She couldn't think of a reason that Sherlock would think she was interested in Jack Harkness. He was just Jack being…Jack.  
"Sherlock, I have known Jack Harkness since I went to uni. I'm not interested in him."  
Molly couldn't help but smirk at the thought of being interested in Jack. Others maybe, but not her.  
"Good." Sherlock muttered. "He can find himself his own pathologist."


	39. Anorexia

The prompt was "Anorexia" courtesy of the lovely SweetMolly. If that type of subject matter bothers you, please don't read it.  
Three pounds. The words rang in her ears, she never quite able to get them out of her head. She had been a fool to think he wouldn't notice. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes. He could tell you the life story of your childhood hamster by looking at your left pinkie. Of course he had noticed.  
Molly sat in her kitchen, head in hands. The rumbling in her stomach was the only sound in the quiet flat, but she didn't move to retrieve any of the food in her cabinets.  
"You're not hungry." She repeated to herself, unaware that she had spoken the words into the quiet.  
It wasn't because of Sherlock that she wasn't eating. Of course not. She couldn't care less what he thought, and besides, she had recovered from her anorexia. She had been fine for the past five years. Molly sighed to herself before making her way to the door, bending to retrieve her shoes from where they sat on the mat. Pain ricocheted through her skull, bright lights blinded her temporarily, and she was forced to sit down with her back to the wall. She could hear herself crying, but she had distanced herself from the physical sensations she was feeling, trying to rid herself of the pain. You're not hungry…you really aren't hungry.  
Molly had no idea how long she had sat on the floor, she wasn't even sure if she had fainted or fallen asleep. But all she was aware of was that her phone was beeping incessantly and that there was a loud banging inches from where her head rested. It took her a second to realize someone was pounding on her door.  
"Molly?" She heard a muffled voice.  
"John?" Molly cringed at the weakness of her own voice and reached up to open the door. The doctor barged into the flat, face replete with concern. He caught sight of her huddled weakly on the floor.  
"Molly? What happened? You weren't at work…and you didn't answer your phone! Sherlock and Lestrade are looking for…"  
He suddenly noticed her ashy face and vacant eyes.  
"When was the last time you ate?" He asked.  
"Two days…"  
John's eyes flew wide and he bundled her into his arms.  
"You're coming to Baker Street where I can take care of you until you are feeling well again."  
Molly woke up snuggled under multiple blankets, a tray with tea and toast at her elbow, and the sound of arguing reaching her ears.  
"You know it was your fault. If you hadn't been an absolute brute she wouldn't have felt bad about her weight. But no, you're Sherlock ruddy Holmes and you can do what you want. Who cares about consequences? Who cares that Molly could be permanently physically or emotionally damaged? You do realize she could have died? Eating disorders are dangerous, they do crazy things to your body. If she had gone long enough without me finding out, she could have died."  
Molly heard pacing (John) and the gentle plucking of violin strings (Sherlock). Something crashed against the wall.  
"She's my pathologist John. Of course I care." Sherlock spit out the word care like it was a poison.  
"Well you better bloody well start acting like it. You aren't allowed to do this to people I care about. Especially her. She likes you Sherlock, though I have no idea what she sees in you, and she takes what you say to heart."  
Molly heard footsteps approach down the hall, and looked up just in time to see John peek his head round the door.  
"How's our patient doing?" He asked.  
His voice was calm and collected, his bedside manner restored. The angry soldier of moments before had been replaced by the gentle doctor. Molly gave him a weak smile. He knelt on the floor next to the bed.  
"He's an idiot. But he does care about you."  
Molly shook her head. That was one thing she was sure of. Sherlock Holmes didn't care about her, he just used her.  
"D'you remember that terrible boyfriend you had? Steven, I think his name was. Anyway, Sherlock said, and I quote, 'if he so much as breaths on her I will snap his neck and make it look like an accident'"  
Ten minutes later, Molly heard a quiet knock on the door.  
"Go ahead." She mumbled.  
All she really wanted was to sleep for the next three days, but she figured one more visitor couldn't hurt. She saw Sherlock move in to the room out of the corner of her eye. He didn't say anything at first. He went about his nightly routine, which made Molly slightly uncomfortable as his "nightly routine" mostly consisted of stripping before wrapping his dressing gown around him. It hadn't occurred to her that she was sleeping in his bed until he moved to join her.  
"John says I can't sleep here tonight. There is an extra pillow under the bed." He said.  
He reached for the pillow, retrieved a blanket that was folded at the end of the bed, and began to leave the room. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and approached where Molly was settled in, half asleep. He bent over her before pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead.  
"I'm sorry." He whispered, "I do care."  
He walked away swiftly, dressing gown swirling around his feet, leaving Molly half asleep in bed.


	40. Jam for John

The prompt was "Buying jam for John" courtesy of the lovely spenderlover. A big thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed or prompted!  
Molly inspected the rows of jam, craning forward to better read the labels.  
"There are so many! Do you think John would like strawberry? Or raspberry? Raspberry was my favorite when…"  
She felt Sherlock lean forward, his chest brushing her back. He selected a jar off the shelf and heedlessly dumped it in their shopping basket.  
"I don't see why this is necessary. John can buy his own jam."  
Molly turned around, hands planted firmly on her hips.  
"I told you, Sherlock. When you do something rude it is polite to try and make it up to the person."  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.  
"I had no idea that social customs dictated buying 'sorry we were too loud having sex' jam. "  
Molly shushed him vigorously, trying her best to avoid eye contact with the startled older lady across from them. She dragged Sherlock forcibly towards the checkout queues, keeping her eyes firmly planted on the white laminate flooring.  
An hour later, Sherlock was settled on the floor in Baker Street, three jars of jam spread on the floor before him. A tube of wrapping paper was near his elbow and tape clung to his navy dressing gown. He had done his best to convince Molly that the entire gift giving idea was unnecessary but she wouldn't take no for an answer.  
"Do I really need to wrap this?" He asked.  
Molly nodded.  
"If you are going to apologize, you should do it right."  
Sherlock flipped over so he was lying on his back. A devious grin graced his face.  
"You should be the one apologizing. You were the one who…"  
"Just wrap it Sherlock." Molly interrupted hastily.  
Molly knocked on the door to John's apartment, which was directly above theirs.  
"Let's just leave it and run." Sherlock suggested. "It could be fun."  
Molly gave him a warning glare.  
"I don't see why you are so averse to apologizing Sherlock. You don't even have to tell him why you bought it."  
"That would have been a lot easier if it hadn't been wrapped, with a 'sorry for the raucous sex' gift tag, now wouldn't it?"  
Molly had just enough time to register surprise.  
"They make those?"  
Sherlock nodded, a slightly disturbed look gracing his face.  
"You can find a gift tag for anything if you look hard enough."  
Molly didn't want to know. Sherlock tore off the wrapping paper before she could stop him and bundled it into his pocket. At that moment John answered the door. He wore plaid pyjama pants and no shirt. His hair and clothes were askew as if he had been sleeping.  
"Sorry to wake…" Molly began.  
"Jam." Sherlock muttered, shoving the jars into John's arms.  
Sherlock sprinted down the stairs with Molly in tow, leaving a very confused John in the doorway to his apartment.


	41. Sherlolly at the Beach

The prompt was "Sherlolly at the beach" from the lovely Angel-In-221B . Sorry this took me so long dear!  
Sherlock had learned a few things in his relationship with Molly Hooper. The first (which he had learned quiet swiftly after she moved to Baker Street) was that it is unwise to store cow's blood in cranberry juice containers. It turned out rather badly. The rest were myriad bits of wisdom dealing with women, cooking, house cleaning, and acceptable hours to play violin. Arguably the most important, though, was that if your frazzled fiancée asks you to take her to the beach, you go.  
Sherlock slumped on his towel, trying to draw as much of his long limbs under the shade of Molly's umbrella as possible. It was obvious that he wasn't accustomed to having so much of his body directly exposed to sunlight. His chest, arms, and legs were milky white, a lighter shade than his face (which Molly hadn't believed possible).  
"You're like a vampire!" Molly teased. "C'mon, let's get some food."  
Molly dragged Sherlock to a nearby food stand, her tiny body not actually pulling him as much as she thought she was. Molly stood in the queue as Sherlock settled onto  
a bench. Molly felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see a teenage boy (no older than eighteen or nineteen) standing behind her.  
"Excuse me miss. My friends think you are very pretty and they dared me to talk to you…"  
The boy was obviously painfully shy, and Molly felt bad for him. She could remember being that age and completely uncomfortable around anyone of the opposite gender (not that it had improved much when she met Sherlock).  
"Molly." She said, extending a hand.  
Sherlock hated the beach. He really didn't see the attraction of a day with sand in one's swim trunks, the sun beating down on you, and strangers ogling you from a distance. He was only here because Molly wanted to be. Sherlock watched Molly from where he was situated on a bench. He had just sent a text message to John (something along the lines of "I am surrounded by the moronic masses of London with no escape") when he glanced back up. Molly had moved forward three paces in the queue, but she was no longer paying attention. Instead, she was engaged in conversation with a young man (whose upper body was rather too muscular for Sherlock's liking). Sherlock was about to break up the conversation when Molly reached the front of the queue. She leaned over, brushed a kiss on the boy's cheek, and placed her order as if nothing had happened. What did she think she was doing? She was his fiancée for goodness sake.  
Molly trotted over to where Sherlock sat, food in hand.  
"Who was he?" He mumbled,  
ignoring the outstretched food.  
"Alfie…I don't know him, just a random boy."  
Sherlock sat up straighter, an aggravated look on his face.  
"Do you always kiss random boys in the queue?"  
Molly looked confused for a second.  
"Oh that. I felt bad for him."  
Sherlock pulled her onto his lap and kissed her roughly.  
"Better now?" She asked.  
He harrumphed in reply.  
The next few hours had gone smoothly. Sherlock had almost gotten over his fit of jealousy and Molly had even been able to coax him into the water. Granted, he only went in up to his shins, but it was good enough for her. They were currently on the swings. Well, Molly was on the swings. Sherlock was standing about four feet to the left of the swings with a disinterested look on his face. Molly heard loud giggling and squeals and was able to turn her head just in time to see Sherlock being mobbed by a group of teenage girls in bikinis. Molly started to walk over to keep the peace after the inevitable insults that Sherlock would let fly. Instead she found her fiancé posing for pictures with the girls, arms wrapped around their torsos. The girls giggled and one kissed his cheek.  
"People say you're mean. We think you're just lovely." One girl, the obvious leader of the group cooed, scooting closer to Sherlock.  
Molly had never realized just how much blondes in sparkly pink bikinis annoyed her.  
"Sherlock, I think it's time to go." Molly said, grabbing at his hand. He shrugged and grabbed Molly's bag that sat at his feet. Sherlock wrapped his arm securely around her waist. Molly could almost feel the stares of the group of girls burning into her back. She reached up to kiss him soundly, dragging his head to hers, fingers entwined tightly in his hair. She felt his hands roaming up her back. They walked away a moment later, but not before Molly turned her head towards the group of girls and smirked at them.  
"I hate the beach." She muttered.


	42. Expecting

The prompt was "Molly tells Sherlock she is pregnant" from a lovely Anonfairy.  
Molly had begun to be suspicious when a typical 24 hour flu lasted a week. She had considered going to the doctor, but had shrugged it off. She was fine. She had noticed that her period (usually as regular as the phases of the moon) was five days late, but she had chalked it up to the flu and moved on. They hadn't done "it" that much, with Sherlock away quite often on cases. It had been their one year wedding anniversary, and they had both been slightly tipsy that night, but that didn't mean anything. She was fine. Right?  
Molly had felt rather silly when she went purchased the little cardboard box and then rushed through the self-checkout. She had thrown other random items into her shopping basket to cover the test, she wasn't even sure why at the time. She swiped the chocolate, pineapple, and Doritos before hurriedly tossing the cardboard box in amongst the other purchases. Cravings already? She rushed back to Bart's with ten minutes left of her lunch break. She had just enough time to run to the loo, take the test, and figure out once and for all if she was pregnant.  
The next three minutes felt like torture. She was almost to afraid to flip over the little sticks, unsure which result she wanted to see. She turned them hurriedly, like ripping off a bandage. The same result stared up at her from all three tests. Two little pink lines. Positive. Molly was a bit ashamed to admit her reaction. She emitted an awfully unladylike squeal and danced around the bathroom. She was having a baby. She, Molly Holmes, was having a baby.  
Molly settled into the armchair that was placed in front of the fireplace in 221B, the chocolate and Doritos from earlier near at hand. For some reason the pineapple looked suddenly repulsive and she had thrown it hurriedly into the rubbish bin. Sherlock was due home at any minute, but with his line of work any minute could mean anything from thirty seconds to three days. She heard the door squeak open and saw Sherlock move to hang his coat in the closet.  
"That you, love?" She called over her shoulder.  
"Who else would it be?" Was his muffled reply from somewhere inside the cupboard.  
"I have something I want you to help me with. It's related to something I was working on. I got curious."  
Sherlock walked up behind her, planting both hands firmly behind her on the chair. He leaned over to kiss her soundly and she couldn't help but giggle. He walked around to the front of the chair and picked her up easily, sliding into the space where she had been sitting moments before and settling her onto his lap.  
"What is it?" He asked.  
She held up a paper.  
"A book key. Not a very good one, I'm afraid."  
Sherlock reached for the proffered paper and glanced over it quickly.  
"Three words. Simple."  
He glanced down the page once more.  
"This upper case letter here must be the first letter of the title. Not too difficult at all. Then from there it is incredibly simple. Page, paragraph, word. I believe you could have figured it out on your own. What was the occasion for the giving of this book key?"  
"Uhm…a…a…love note. I found it on the floor. I believe it belonged to one of the victims I had heard Lestrade talking about. He had the evidence bag, so it could have fallen out while he was in." Molly stammered. She hadn't exactly thought that far.  
"Could have…"Sherlock mused. "Well, let's try it, shall we? I believe this first one must be the Bible. A book many people own, starts with B."  
He flipped to the page indicated and traced down it with his finger. He gave a noncommittal shrug.  
"We…maybe, maybe not."  
Molly watched as he reread the next line.  
"Hmm.…starts with R. Let's try Romeo and Juliet. Slightly morbid, but lovers might find it romantic."  
A few seconds later he emerged from behind the page, beaming.  
"Worst book key I have ever used. So simple. The next word is are"  
The last one. This had been the difficult one, and Molly was unsure that Sherlock would get it on the first try. He reached for a book on the shelf, and Molly leaned forward to ensure he had the right one. He did. She was suddenly nervous, doubt kicking in for the first time. How would he react? He was Sherlock after all. She broke out of her reverie to see him staring at the page confusedly.  
"Pregnant. We are pregnant…"  
He looked at the page again before looking at her.  
"There was no…we are… A baby?" He asked, eyes wide.  
Molly nodded, suddenly frozen in place. He gaped at her for a second, then began to laugh. He crossed to where Molly was sitting and picked her up, twirling her in the air by he waist. He let her down gently, kissing her as he did so.  
"Congratulations Mrs Holmes."  
He said, sinking into the chair behind him with a dazed, though happy, expression on his face.  
"Whatever we do," he said, turning to Molly with sudden seriousness in his eyes "we are never, ever, naming our child Mycroft."


	43. Meeting Mummy

The prompt was "meeting mummy" courtesy of the lovely 4UISUNI2.  
Molly settled her dress around her knees. She didn't usually feel nervous meeting her boyfriend's parents, she wasn't a teenager after all, but meeting Lady Victoria Holmes was slightly different. Maybe it was because the majority of her recent relationships (well actually, all of them) hadn't progressed to this point. Jim hadn't really had time between his job in IT and being a criminal psychopath. Maybe it was because Sherlock wasn't there with her. But no matter what she had been nervous about, her meeting with Mummy Holmes was not what she was expecting.  
Molly had been sitting in an open garden by herself for about ten minutes and was just beginning to worry that she had come on the wrong day when she heard footsteps approaching. She stood to see a tall, black-haired woman walking towards her. Her height was imposing, but her facial features were kind. She looked like her younger son, the same eyes that shifted mysteriously between green and blue, the same Cupid's bow lips. She was raven-haired, obviously natural even though she was in her upper sixties at least, and her hair fell in dark ringlets around her shoulders.  
"I am Victoria Holmes." She said, extending her hand towards Molly. "I hear you are seeing my son."  
Twenty minutes later, Molly was completely at ease.  
"When he was little, only two or so, he couldn't say his own name. Sherlock always managed to twist it into Sherly."  
Molly giggled.  
"So that's where the nickname came from. I call him that sometimes. He looks positively ill."  
Mrs Holmes chuckled, her laugh eerily similar to Sherlock's .  
"Did Mycroft ever tell you about Captain Mittens?"  
Molly shook her head.  
"Well, when Sherlock was young we had a cat named Mittens…"  
"I'm telling you Mycroft, the chauffeur couldn't possibly have…"  
Molly looked up from her cup of tea in time to see her absolutely confounded boyfriend standing on the opposite edge of the lawn, his face beet red. Mycroft stood next to him, hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets.  
"Hello Mummy, Doctor Hooper. Where were we Sherlock?"  
The consulting detective looked between his mother, girlfriend, and brother.  
"Are you having tea? Together?" He croaked.  
Mrs Holmes glanced up, an inscrutable expression on her face.  
"Excellent deduction Sherly. I don't know how you manage it. Now kiss your lovely girlfriend hello and leave."  
Sherlock looked stricken. His mother watched him expectantly.  
"I don't know how someone as difficult to deal with as yourself got someone as lovely as Doctor Hooper." She said, winking at Molly behind Sherlock's back.  
Sherlock, completely uncomfortable, crossed to where Molly was seated in a wicker lawn chair. He kissed her briefly, only long enough to satiate his mother, before resuming his conversation with his brother. The two men wandered away, Mycroft's face amused, Sherlock's bewildered. Molly could hear the pair arguing about the guilt or innocence of a chauffeur.  
"But the blood spatters Mycroft. The blood spatters!" She heard Sherlock exclaim loudly before they were out of earshot.  
"I wish you luck with that boy, Molly. I really do. What was I saying before we were interrupted? Ah yes, Captain Mittens."


	44. Love

The prompt was "Sherlock realizes he truly loves Molly" from the lovey SammyKatz.  
She invaded his mind palace. No one had ever been able to do that before, not even Moriarty was able to infiltrate every nook, every spare shelf. Bits of information about her began to appear in rooms where they shouldn't have been. Triggers began to adapt to accommodate her. A trigger about Debussy grew to include that he was her favorite composer. A saved piece of information about cats reminded him that they were her favorite animal. He realized that she was no longer relegated to the little shelf in a corner of a cupboard. She soon took up the whole cupboard. Then he had to build her a room. He placed the room in the attic, an area he kept under mental lock and key, a place where he banished anything related to sentiment. But he found his mental rambles took him more and more often up the flight of steps. He tore up floorboards and stairs in an attempt to make it more difficult to get to Molly's room, but each time his mind palace repaired itself. The room expanded, and soon the attic was entirely devoted to Molly. Useless information about the scent of her shampoo, her favorite television show, the way she took her coffee, all were saved to his hard drive. He wasn't prepared for when she migrated to the foyer. He didn't save triggers in the foyer, it was his safe zone, a welcoming place free of mental clutter. But one day, as he paced the black and white checkered floor, he saw a single memory seated comfortably in the armchair that stood near the door. HIS armchair near the door. The trigger was an inconsequential one, a simple memory of Molly's head tipped back in laughter as she spattered him with cake batter. He had been living at her flat at the time, he had been there for a month after the fall, and she had discovered that it was his birthday. She had begun to make him a cake, but instead took the opportunity to cover him in batter the moment he had walked into the kitchen. It was a sentimental memory, one that should have been deleted to make room for something important, but he had saved it. And now it had taken up permanent residence in the one area of his mind palace where even Molly Hooper had never been before. For a week he attempted to shoo the pesky memory out of his chair, back to the attic where it belonged. He even attempted to delete the memory, but it blocked him, wrapping itself tightly around the chair where it sat. So he left it, allowing the memory to sit quietly and contentedly in the place it shouldn't be. Gradually, other triggers that dealt with Molly made their way to the foyer. A glossy black concert grand suddenly appeared, a reminder of the time that Molly played piano for him, a Rachmaninov. Soon, the entryway was overrun with Molly. He was nervous, suspicious of why she would invade his mental sanctuary. It occurred to him that he might feel something different for her than anyone else, but he ignored the thought, mentally engulfing it in flames. It was ridiculous. He didn't love Molly Hooper. Did he?  
He suffered through three weeks of Molly Hooper invading his every thought. He couldn't use his mind palace to relax, she was there. He couldn't sleep, she was in his dreams. Even a case was out of the question as it unavoidably required going to Bart's. He sulked around the house in his dressing gown and pajama pants.  
"Love is so…aggravating!" He exploded one morning, shooting at the wall in an angry rage. It took him a second to fully realize what he had just said, when he did a look of horror crosse his face. He heard John chuckle from somewhere in the kitchen.  
"Finally figured it out Romeo?"  
Sherlock gave him his best evil stare.  
"Shut up John." He huffed petulantly.  
John came to sit down on the sofa, doing his best to avoid walking too close to Sherlock. There was no telling what he would do when he was irritated.  
"Listen. You love Molly. Buck up and admit it to her. She's absolutely mad about you."  
Sherlock turned his head slowly, eyes set in a menacing glare.  
"I do not love Molly Hooper. I was merely speaking in hypotheticals."  
John shrugged nonchalantly.  
"Fine, mate. If you don't go after her, I will. I always thought she was kind of hot…" He said, reaching for his jacket that was slung across a chair.  
"Fine!" Sherlock all but shouted. "You win. I'm going. This is me, leaving. Going to the morgue."  
He grabbed his long coat out of the closet and tromped down the stairs.  
"Leaving John!" He hollered up at his roommate, who was watching him from the landing.  
It didn't occur to Sherlock until he was halfway to Bart's that John had a girlfriend.


	45. Wine part 2

The prompt was a request for a part two to the story "Wine" from the lovely SammyKatz (original prompter of "Wine" was  
anonymous ). If you haven't read Wine, do it!  
Molly's night had been interesting to say the least. She wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't dreamt the entire thing. It wasn't like she hadn't had dreams about Sherlock barging into the morgue and snogging her silly before. She sent him a text, though she instantly regretted it, and headed off to work. It was the best she could do.  
Molly was beginning to worry. Her phone had been silent all day, no hint of a text from Sherlock. She was bending over a corpse, sewing up the chest cavity of Davis, Charles N, when she heard shuffling footsteps behind her.  
"Molly I…" She heard Sherlock say. His voice was hoarse, it sounded like he had swallowed sand paper, and his words were slightly slurred. Molly whirled to face him, cheeks already flame red.  
"Sherlock…what happened last night?" She asked.  
He looked exhausted, eyes red and puffy. His hair was a wild tangle on his head and he was squinting slightly.  
"Well…I'm not…really sure." He said slowly, each word seemingly wrenched from his gut.  
Molly would almost say he was hungover, but she was sure he didn't drink alcohol. She looked at him quizzically, making up her mind if it was an appropriate time to slap him. She went for a different tactic. She wrapped her arms around his neck and repeated the kiss from the night before. She pulled away after a moment, leaving a dazed, confused, and slightly turned on Sherlock behind her.  
"How about now?" She asked.  
He just looked at her.  
"I really can't say I remember. Though I can make a reliable guess that we…"  
Molly threw her hands up in exasperation.  
"You kissed me Sherlock! You barged in here, barely said a word, and snogged the living daylights out of me."  
Sherlock groaned, running his fingers through his tousled hair.  
"I deduced as much."  
"You what?" Molly was unsure that she actually wanted to hear the answer.  
"Well…when I'm drunk my mind…fixates on things. Things it wants."  
"When you're what?" Molly couldn't keep the anger from her voice any longer.  
"You came in here and drunkenly made out with me? You didn't even act drunk. You were speaking normally…wait. What do you mean 'things it wants'."  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"I guess my mind wants to snog you. I just didn't realize it."  
Molly wasn't sure whether she should be elated or enraged.  
"This is the strangest way that anyone has ever asked me to be their girlfriend."  
Molly chuckled.  
"I accept."  
Sherlock gave a face-cracking grin.  
"That good of a kiss eh?" Was his smug reply.


	46. Karaoke

The prompt was "Sherlock, John, Molly, and Lestrade are at a karaoke bar" from the lovely SammyKatz, who I would like to thank for all the AMAZING prompts. This little compilation has definitely been a team-effort between myself and many others, and you have been one of my primary muses. :) Thanks dear!  
A karaoke bar was not exactly Molly's idea of a good time. The shimmery, sequined black tank top she wore was not exactly her idea of a comfortable blouse. The black stiletto heels on her feet were by far the worst of the three. She had learned long ago that if Sherlock Holmes showed up at your flat, outfit in hand, telling you that you were going undercover, you went. But that didn't mean she had to like it.  
Sherlock lounged in a chair next to Molly, his fingers carelessly tracing the delicate bones in her wrist. They were 'dating', accompanied to a karaoke bar by Sherlock's best friend and Molly's 'brother' Greg. John was currently at the mic with a blonde he had never met, singing an off-key rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart". Molly could see Sherlock cringe at each sharp note. John made a slightly tipsy bow to the crowd and jogged to where the others were sitting. Lestrade stood up, reaching for Molly's hand.  
"A little cozy for a brother and sister, don't you think Greg?" Sherlock said lazily, drawing out Lestrade's name like an insult "Besides, she is my 'girlfriend'."  
He leaned up from where he sat to wrap an arm around Molly's neck, kissing her slowly. Molly's face was brick red. Lestrade sent a pointed glance at John, mouthing 'are they dating' towards the doctor. John shrugged. Molly pulled back first, her face a mixture of pleasure and surprise.  
"C'mon Molly, you've got to sing at least once." Lestrade said dragging her towards the stage.  
Sherlock wasn't sure what had made him kiss Molly, keeping in character most likely. It was imperative that the bartender not realize who they were or that their assumed backstory was false. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. He didn't pay attention to the opening strains of the song Molly was to sing. What did it matter to him? He knew Lestrade had chosen it for her, so it was bound to be some terrible, innuendo-filled, Brittany Spears song that would lead to unnecessary hip shaking from Molly. He was slightly surprised by the bluesy beginning. He looked up sharply, as did most other males in the room, when Molly's voice filled the crowded room. Unlike her speaking voice, her singing voice was seductively low. He recognized the song. Unfortunately, he also remembered the occasion where he had first heard it. Mycroft and his girlfriend plus dancing equaled immediate mental scarring. "Fever", Bette Midler. He looked over at Lestrade, who had a wolfish grin on his face.  
Molly was beginning to enjoy herself. Her voice was rich and she was able to hit a variety of notes. She added flourishes and ornamentation to different sections and Sherlock couldn't help but admire her obvious musical knowledge. He, of course, managed to miss the fact that she was staring directly at him throughout her entire performance. Her performance was over swiftly (too swiftly, Sherlock thought). She curtseyed to the audience and trotted back to where Sherlock and John were seated.  
"Molly that was…"  
Sherlock cut John off with a hostile stare.  
"Satisfactory." He said. "Your singing was less off pitch than the others, though your choice of ornamentation was completely out of character for the piece."  
John shrugged towards Molly.  
Lestrade was on stage, wailing a Queen song in a way that was painful to every ear in the building. Molly was standing next to Sherlock, doing her best to look encouraging for Lestrade. Sherlock made no such pretense. He was slumped in his chair with his finger shoved dramatically in his ears. A young, slightly drunk man made his way towards the three seated at the corner table. He approached Molly, shoving an amicable, though trembling hand at her.  
"You were marvelous up there." He slurred.  
She suddenly felt Sherlock wrap both arms around her waist. He pulled her onto his lap and began to run his fingers through her hair.  
"She really was, wasn't she. I always tell her that she needs to do more singing, don't I doll?" He all but purred the last bit. His lips slowly wandered Molly's exposed neck.  
The man's eyes widened at the sudden unforeseen gesture of affection, and Molly was all but certain that her face directly mirrored the shock on his.  
"I…um…I guess I didn't realize that…good job." He turned and walked away swiftly.  
Sherlock hurriedly shoved Molly off his lap as soon as his back was turned.  
"The lengths I have to go to for cases." He muttered. Molly was slightly breathless and John was in shock. Only Lestrade, from his elevated vantage point, noticed the smug pleasure on Sherlock's face.


	47. Sunburn

The prompt was "Sherlock gets a Sunburn" from the lovely Icemask511.  
Come quickly. Could be dangerous.-JW  
Molly glanced at her phone, a frown settling onto her face. She and Sherlock had an interesting relationship, not exactly dating, way more than just friends. She was used to cryptic texts in early hours of the morning instructing her to bring KY jelly, a human heart, and a blowtorch to Baker Street at once. It wasn't exactly John's style though. A second text rang in after the first.  
Oh, bring aloe vera- JW  
She shook her head, mystified, and headed for her bathroom in search of the tub of the gelatinous substance.  
Molly was at Baker Street in exactly 14 minutes with a squeezy bottle of aloe vera in her purse and five more texts that had come in rapid-fire succession as she was leaving her house. Each had a repeated plea for aloe with an increasing amount of exclamation points after the word "help". She pushed open the door to the flat and was met by a chorus of low, moan-like screams and the sound of glass breaking. John brushed past her as she walked trepidatiously into the carnage that had been the living room of 221B. The knife that usually held Sherlock's mail on the mantle was gone, a bad sign, and various pieces of furniture were tipped over. It looked like a wild animal had rampaged through the flat.  
"Thank God you're here." John said before rushing hurriedly out of the room and down the stairs.  
Molly followed the sound of groaning to what she assumed was Sherlock's bedroom door. She was unsure if she was meant to go inside, she really had no idea why she had been called to Baker Street at all, and instead elected to stand outside of the door nervously twiddling her thumbs.  
"Oh for heaven's sakes." She heard Sherlock mutter.  
"What are you standing out there for Molly?" His voice was low and hoarse, sounding like he had been either screaming or vomiting. With Sherlock, it could definitely be both. "Come in and pay your last respects."  
She could hear him moaning through the door, the sound a low, guttural cry of pain.  
"My…what?" She asked, making her way into his bedroom.  
"I'm going to die. I would think you would at least want to be on hand."  
She had been warned of his habit of sleeping naked, so she made sure to avert her eyes from the bed. Catching an eyeful wouldn't do much to help her…situation.  
"Honestly Molly." He snapped. "I have on clothes. You aren't going to be able to help me if you won't even look at me."  
She turned slowly. "Clothes" was overstating the case, Molly wouldn't exactly deem a pair of tight-fitting navy boxer shorts clothes. His skin was in direct contrast to the pure whiteness of his duvet. His entire body (that she could see) was flame red. The skin on his chest was particularly horrific, patches almost a mottled purple. She cringed at the sight, recalling a similar sunburn she had suffered through on holiday once. He groaned for added emphasis, raising each limb in turn to show her the full extent of the burn. She settled gingerly next to him on the bed and he cringed at the unavoidable jostling.  
"John's an idiot. He insisted this burn was my fault. It was his fault. He is the one in charge of sunscreen. It is an international rule that the doctor is in charge of sunscreen. Who doesn't know that?" He whined feebly.  
Molly chuckled and reached for her purse that she had dropped on a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Sherlock growled when he saw the squeezy bottle and Molly cocked an eyebrow at the odd reaction.  
"No." He all but snarled. "I would rather my skin crumble to dust than use that."  
Molly shrugged.  
"I can call Mrs Hudson and she can rub it on you while I hold you down. "  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.  
"You wouldn't dare." He grunted.  
"Oh, wouldn't I ?" Molly moved towards the door.  
She felt Sherlock's long fingers close round her wrist and he dragged her back towards the bed.  
"Fine." He huffed. "But if a single glob of the stuff ends up in my hair…" he left the threat unfinished.  
He lied down on his back, limbs spreadeagled.  
"How exactly did you end up like this Sherlock?" Molly asked as she hotted up the squeezy bottle in her hands.  
"Case. Beach. Fell asleep." He muttered. "I hate swim trunks."  
Molly squeezed the goo into her hands and began to massage it into the skin of Sherlock's legs, insuring that she was doing it gently. He sighed at the cooling sensation and she could tell that he was becoming more relaxed and less petulant.  
"John's been insufferable. I've been bored and all he will let me do is watch television. He won't even let me shoot at pigeons through the window."  
Molly slowly inched upwards, skipping up above his waist band. She wasn't quite comfortable with that much massaging of his…lower abdomen, but there was nothing she could do about it. The burn was worst where the waistband of his swimsuit had hit, the skin of his…lower abdomen and hips was a deep shade of crimson that was boarding maroon, and was hot to the touch. She reached for more aloe and slathered it on to the affected area. She moved to his stomach, gently rubbing the aloe in smooth circles over the injured skin.  
"When did this happen?"  
He looked up from where he had been watching her fingers.  
"About three days ago. John and I were on a case. Being the fool he is, he didn't pack the sunscreen. I got sun poisoning." He gestured to a pot on the floor that she assumed could only have been used for vomiting. She felt her stomach turn nauseatingly.  
By now, she was rubbing broad circles on his chest. Molly hadn't realized that she was straddling his hips, hovering inches above him, or that the motions of her hands were needlessly slow until she heard the door creak open.  
"Tea for you dear. I brought some toast and water too." Mrs Hudson said, placing a tray on the bedside table. Molly hurriedly moved to the side of the bed, clutching the squeezy bottle of aloe vera defensively in her goo-coated hands.  
"I don't ask questions dear. Though as a piece of advice, it would probably be more comfortable to wait until this nasty burn subsides." She said, patting Molly affectionately on the back.


	48. Sherlock Flips Out

The prompt was "John asks Molly out" from the lovely Icemask511.  
John leaned against Molly's desk, body inclined slightly towards her. He ran his fingers through his hair before clearing his throat.  
"Do you want to get dinner?" He asked.  
Molly looked up from her paperwork and smiled at him.  
"I can't say your methods are incredibly romantic, but sure. I would like that a lot."  
John grinned and shoved his fingers through his already rumpled hair. Both he and Molly managed to miss the look of disgust from Sherlock, who was seated in front of a nearby microscope.  
Running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to look "sexy". Sherlock huffed in disgust. His body was so obviously inclined towards her petite one. His blatant flirting was sickening, but Molly didn't seem to care, or even notice. Sherlock stood up from the microscope, no longer caring about the slide he had been so eagerly examining.  
"Let's go John." He said.  
John let out a protesting grunt, but Sherlock all but carried him out of the morgue.  
"What do you think you were doing back there?" Sherlock all but shouted once they were safely in Baker Street.  
John looked up from we're he was unknotting his shoes.  
"What?" He asked innocently.  
"'Do you want to get dinner?'" Sherlock said, his voice a mocking imitation of John's tenor. John rolled his eyes.  
"It's called getting a date. Normal people do it quite often."  
Sherlock threw himself on the sofa petulantly.  
"You would know, Mister three continents."  
John couldn't help but contain the grin that settled on his face.  
"Rumors…" He muttered.  
Sherlock glared at him.  
"Not with Molly. You can't 'ask out' my pathologist. There's a rule against it."  
John tossed his shoes across the room and made his way to the kitchen. He opened the nearly empty fridge, shuddered at the sight of a single severed ear, and settled for toast instead.  
"Like 'bros before hoes'? Bros before…pathologists? It doesn't have the same ring…"  
Sherlock shook his head disgustedly.  
"I am by no means your 'bro'. You are not to marry Molly."  
John shot Sherlock a quizzical glance.  
"Why would I want to marry Molly? I just asked her out on a date."  
"So you want a relationship with no commitment? A casual hookup? Molly is not a slut. She isn't going to sleep with you, since that is all you're after… one night stands are not her thing." Sherlock's voice was vehement.  
John threw his hands in the air.  
"Fine." He huffed. "I will let her know that you are incredibly infatuated with her and want to date her, but are a coward. I'll call it off if you care that much."  
"I am not a coward!" Sherlock called after the retreating form of the doctor.


	49. Labour

The prompt was "Molly is in labor" from the lovely Melody Starr31. (In case you were wondering, this would be the birth of their first child).  
Sherlock paced up and down the hallway, tugging nervously on his coat.  
"Well Sherlock?" John asked, pointing at the door. "Are you going in?"  
Sherlock sent him a look that could kill.  
"Of course not. Last time she told me to…suffice it to say, it wasn't polite. For my own health and safety, it is best to stay out here."  
John rolled his eyes, pushing his taller friend along by the shoulders.  
"Oh for heavens sake Sherlock. I have seen quite a few fathers-to-be, but you take the cake. Just don't tell her horror stories or that you could do it better."  
John paused a moment to catch a glimpse of the almost sheepish look on Sherlock's face.  
"You told her you could do it better, didn't you?"  
Sherlock was catapulted through the doors of the hospital room while John went to resume his seat next to Mary.  
Molly was walking slowly around the room.  
"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock asked, rushing to move her back to the bed.  
"The doctor said it was okay to walk. Is that okay with you Sherlock? Or do you know better than the doctor? Do you want to control everything I do? I just want to bloody walk!"  
Sherlock was stunned by the sudden outburst. He vaguely remembered having read about something called transition and it's accompanying erratic behaviour in one of the numerous books Molly had made him read. Molly's back was to him, and he could tell that she was crying.  
"Why the heck are you letting me walk?" She shouted suddenly. "It could be dangerous! It's your job to protect me. To protect us! You don't even care about this baby, do you? I hate you Sherlock Holmes!"  
Molly walked shakily back to the bed as another contraction caught her. A look of pain crossed her face, and Sherlock felt an emotion he had never felt before. He wasn't sure if it was pain (why should he feel pain) or maybe protectiveness. He helped her the last few steps to the bed. She was too weak to shake off his guiding hands. A nurse stepped through the doors and Molly sent the poor woman a death glare.  
"I'm just here to check you Mrs Holmes." She said.  
Molly rolled her eyes, settling back into the less than comfortable pillows.  
"The nurse said another hour or so Molly." Sherlock said a few minutes after the nurse had left.  
He tried his best to sound soothing, but his voice, which usually calmed Molly, seemed to aggravate her.  
"Yes, Sherlock, I know what she said. She must be wrong. Bring in John." She snapped at him.  
Sherlock hurried to the hallway and John couldn't help but laugh at the harried expression on his friend's face.  
"Transition?" He asked. "I remember when Mary was…"  
He was cut off by an elbow to the ribs from his wife.  
"Mary was a sweetheart in labor, weren't you darling?"  
Sherlock gestured towards the door with his thumb.  
"Please…check her before I go mad."


	50. Cravings

The prompt was "Molly's weird pregnancy cravings" courtesy of the lovely MorbidbyDefault.  
Molly sat bolt upright. She leaned over to nudge her sleeping husband, who remained completely unresponsive.  
"Sherlock!" She hissed.  
He rolled over, still mostly asleep.  
"Y'alright? D'you have another nightmare ?" He slurred, voice deep and gravelly from sleep.  
Molly shook her head.  
"No. I really want a panini. And crisps. Do you think you could get me some sardines?"  
"They're just cravings Molly. It's two am. Go back to sleep."  
"I don't care what time it is, I need food!"  
Sherlock sighed, rolling out of bed and reaching for his jeans from the day before. He wasn't sure that jeans could be classified as a 'craving', but Molly had been begging him to wear them through the duration of her pregnancy.  
"I'll be back." He said, shuffling towards the door.  
"I love you!" Molly called after him, throwing a balled-up dress shirt at his back. He was about halfway down the stairs when he heard the door to the flat open above him.  
"If you could get me some mocha ice cream and an avocado that would be lovely."  
Molly called after him.  
Molly heard heavy footsteps coming toward her and Sherlock's bedroom. The door swung open and her husband backed through, arms laden with bags and a styrofoam box balanced precariously on his shoulder. Molly spared a single thought to question how he had managed to keep it there before getting out of bed to help him. Sherlock dumped the bags on the bed and Molly retrieved the sandwich from it's delicate position. She flopped in the middle of the bed (flopping had become difficult with a six month pregnant belly) and spread the contents of the shopping bags on the bed. In addition to her requests, Sherlock had purchased carrots, cheese, and lemon bakewells (how had he known). He joined Molly in her makeshift blanket/food carton fort in the middle of the bed. He dropped a spoon in Molly's lap and opened the tub of ice cream, which he balanced on his stomach.  
Twenty minutes later, the food was demolished, the cartons gone, and Molly was lying contentedly in bed. She was snuggled into Sherlock's side. He was practically asleep, his arms curled lightly around Molly's back.  
"Thanks." She whispered.  
He shrugged.  
"I'm not doing this every night."  
Molly chuckled and kissed his cheek.  
"That's what you think." She murmured against his skin.


	51. Song

The prompt was "Song" from the lovely Second daughter of Eve. If you haven't heard Benny singing "Non Piu Andrai" (the first song in the story) go look it up! The second song is "The Prayer". I adore the version Josh Groban and Charlotte Church did. :)  
Molly was stretched on her bed, half watching a cruddy television program. She could hear the shower running in the en suite bathroom. Suddenly a deep, melodious voice rose above the rhythmic pelting of the water.  
"Dele belle turbando il riposo, narcisetto andoncino d'amor."  
Molly looked up sharply. She wouldn't have pegged Sherlock as the type to sing in the shower. His choice in songs confused her even more than the singing. Suddenly the piece changed, she could hear a midrange baritone part sung in Italian followed by a soprano in English that he was singing himself. In the right register no less. Molly knew this one quite well, unlike the Mozart. Molly peeked her head around the door into the steamy bathroom. Sherlock was approaching the part of the song where the two voices joined together in harmony. She couldn't help herself, she joined him on the harmony. She had sung in choir for years in school and uni and had even considered studying music in college.  
"Sogniamo un mondo, senza piu violenza. Un mondo di giustizia e di speranza  
Ognuno dia la mano al suo vicino  
Simbolo di pace e di fraternita" She heard Sherlock's voice falter slightly at the addition of a harmony, but he soon picked up. Their voices twined and danced through the humid air of the bathroom. Molly perched on the toilet seat. Soon, they reached a part where the two voices split, the male singing in Italian and the female returning to English. It was a difficult part, the female harmony taking a higher part with ornamentation. Molly continued singing. She could almost hear the pleasure in Sherlock's voice.  
"Let this be our prayer…" Their voices tapered to a soft, delicate piano. They ended on a crystal clear note, beautifully high. Molly heard the shower handle squeak and she saw Sherlock's hand reach for a towel. He wrapped the towel around his waist, smiled at her for a mere second, and moved to get dressed. They left the bathroom without saying a word. Molly could hear John's applause from the living room.  
"That was lovely dears!" Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen.  
Molly grinned broadly.


	52. Piano

The prompt was "Molly teaches their child piano and Sherlock is surprised." from the lovely MorbidbyDefault.  
Sherlock had taught Maeve to play violin at the age of three years old. He had ordered her a specially sized violin and taught her to read music within a matter of days. Within a year she was fairly proficient on her miniature sized instrument. He had attempted a similar course of study with his son but he had swiftly given up. William was more interested in hiding his father's instrument when he wasn't looking than he was in learning to play his own. The lessons had ended soon after they begun.  
A piano had been a permanent feature of Molly's life for as long as she could remember. Her father was a violinist. She believed that part of the reason she had been so attracted to Sherlock was his violin playing that reminded her of her father. Her mother had always accompanied her father on the piano. The majority of Molly's early memories revolved around the instrument. Her mother and father, playing happily together. She had always thought that the duets they played were like a conversation, the two instruments speaking together like old friends. Her mother had taught her to play at the age of six. Molly had a natural affinity for the instrument. Her playing had dropped off in college (it was impossible to bring her old upright to a dorm room) and she hadn't had much time after. She had purchased a beaten-up, well loved old instrument when she had moved into her first flat. She rarely played it, once or twice a month maybe, but the piano she had affectionately named Bertie accompanied her each time she moved to a new apartment. She had never told Sherlock about her playing, he still didn't know, but he had bought her a black Steinway baby grand when they were married. He had said something about a "Holmes tradition". He had no idea just what it meant to her.  
Molly placed Will's hands lightly on the piano, spreading his fingers to reach each key.  
"Now Will, I want you to play the song we practiced yesterday. "  
The little boy's face screwed up in concentration. He played the piece through perfectly and Molly smiled.  
"Wonderful! Now I am going to play it with you."  
Molly moved her son off her lap and scooted over on the bench. She began to play a duet with him, her fingers dancing lightly over the keys in harmony with his steady plunking. Neither noticed the door to the flat open. Molly heard applause when they reached the end of the piece and looked up to see Sherlock leaning against the door frame. His legs were crossed at the ankles and he was clapping slowly.  
"I had no idea that you were learning piano Will."  
William ran to his father, who picked him up by the waist. The little boy was plopped on top of Sherlock's broad shoulders.  
"I didn't know you played." He said "What other secrets are you keeping from me?"  
Molly shrugged.  
"The usual. My secret lover, stuff like that."  
Sherlock smirked and leaned over to kiss Molly hello. Will squeaked in protest from his position on his father's shoulders.  
"Don't like when I kiss Mummy, eh Will?" Sherlock asked.  
He scrunched his nose and shook his head in distaste. Sherlock smirked and kissed Molly again, a little more forcefully. He made a show of pulling Molly to him by the waist and kissing her soundly. William banged on Sherlock's head with the palms of his hands in protest. Molly laughed and resumed her seat at the piano.  
"C'mon Will. Let's finish our lesson. We can show Daddy what you've learned."  
William took his seat proudly on the piano bench. He grandly flipped the pages of his book to his chosen song. Sherlock leaned on the back of the Steinway, and clapped when Will finished.  
"Wonderful. It sounded like there was a real live elephant in the room."  
Will looked confused, shrugged and trotted off.  
"It's supposed to sound like rain."  
Sherlock shook his head.  
"It sounded like an elephant."  
He reached for his violin, which sat on a stand next to the piano. He tightened each peg in turn, checking each string to make sure it was in tune. He picked up his bow, pulled rosin across the hair, and sat down next to Molly at the piano. He reached behind himself for a folio volume of Hayden's sonatas.  
"Now, you're going to play a duet with me."  
He set the music on the piano and they began to play.


	53. Dance Dare

The prompt was "Dance dare" from the lovely Tenshi.  
Molly followed behind her friend Mary, who had a grocery basket laden with chocolate and chick flicks. It was eleven pm on a Saturday and the grocery store was nearly deserted. Molly and Mary were stocking up on last minute 'girl's night' things, which mainly consisted of terrible movies and all things fattening. Suddenly, Mary started giggling.  
"You know what we should do?" Mary managed to choke out between laughs.  
"The dance dare. You have to dance hip hop as close behind someone  
as possible without them noticing. "  
A few minutes later Molly and Mary had received a few strange glances and some chuckles from complete strangers. Mary gasped suddenly and pointed down the aisle. Two men were walking away from them, one had a head of dark curls and the other was a short blond. Molly recognized those curls…  
"No!" Molly hissed. "Not him!"  
Mary had a mischievous gleam in her eyes.  
"Oh come on Molly!"  
"They're playing Sexy and I Know it. Just, no."  
Mary gave her best pouty face.  
Molly glared at her.  
"Fine. Whatever. But just so you know, that face is much more effective on John than it is on me."  
She approached the two men, doing her best to stay unnoticed. She turned around to give Mary her best death glare.  
Sherlock was unaware of why John felt the compulsion to bring him to the grocery at eleven at night. He had been settled on the sofa, a criminal anthology situated comfortably on his stomach when the doctor had all but dragged him down the stairs and out the door.  
"We're out of milk. And jam. And tea." He had said angrily. "I refuse to go to the store alone, as you always complain that I buy the wrong things."  
Now, here he was, trudged through the grocery, wearing a pair of plaid pyjama pants, a white teeshirt, and his long coat.  
"Was it really imperative to get jam at this hour?" He asked for the seventh time since leaving the flat.  
John sent him a disgruntled look and he decided not to pursue it further.  
He heard footsteps behind them but ignored it. John reached for a jar of jam on the shelf.  
"Blackberry or currant?" He held up both jars for inspection.  
"Oh for heavens sake!" Sherlock shoved his fingers through his hair dramatically. He felt something, as if someone had brushed up against him. A second later and there it was again, the merest brush of what felt like an elbow across his back. He whirled swiftly and caught what he believed was the would-be attacker by the waist. Instead of a burly hit man, he was now firmly gripping a scarlet-hued Molly Hooper. He had stopped her in the middle of some strange gyration. Were her uncharacteristic actions the result of some sort of kink? He dismissed the thought. Molly wasn't the 'kinky' type. Irene, yes, Molly, no. Was she…dancing? He heard John chuckling next to him. An equally cherry colored Mary Morstan emerged from the next aisle over.

"What exactly were you doing?" Sherlock questioned.  
Molly shrugged. She was unable to choke out a reply, so Mary answered for her (or attempted to).  
"Well, you see…um." She gestured towards her laden basket.  
"We were um."  
John laughed in sudden realization. Sherlock was the only one left completely in the dark. He let go of Molly's waist (he had forgotten he was still holding her closely) and cleared his throat.  
"Well then." He tossed both jars of jam into John's basket and marched hurriedly up the aisle.  
"I had no idea you were such a good dancer." John said before trotting after his friend.  
Mary giggled all the way back to her flat while Molly intermittently shushed her and giggled along with her.


	54. Overheard

The prompt was "Sherlock overhears Molly talking about him on the phone" from the lovely Icemask511.  
Sherlock stepped from the damp hear of the shower into the seemingly bitter cold of the bathroom. He wrapped a towel carelessly around his waist, combed his fingers through his damp locks, and trudged back to the bedroom. He couldn't help but smirk at the thought of what exactly had transpired behind those doors only half an hour before. Who knew that Molly was so… adventurous? He really would have appreciated having made that discovery earlier. Sherlock was broken out of his self-satisfied thoughts by the sound of muffled conversation floating from the bedroom. Who was Molly talking to? The conversation seemed to be one-sided, Molly did most of the talking. He couldn't entirely hear, but he was able to catch the gist of the conversation.  
"Yes, he's home mum…" Molly said quietly.  
"He solved the case yesterday. Yes, it was very clever of him."  
Sherlock made no effort to hide his smug grin.  
"No, sorry, we won't be able to do dinner tomorrow night."  
Sherlock sighed, that was one bullet dodged. Their last dinner with Mrs Hooper had been…less than comfortable.  
"Oh my gosh, mum, no. What does that even mean? 'Let him out of the bedroom'? Geeez Mum, that's not awkward or anything."  
Sherlock bit back a laugh. And that, summed up in three sentences, was their last dinner with Mrs Hooper.  
"We're busy. No, not that kind of busy."  
By this point Sherlock had reached the bedroom door, where he leaned awkwardly. He was doing his best not to be noticed. Molly's voice had trailed off in aggravation.  
"We're going to dinner with John and Mary, if you must know. Alright, talk to you later Mum. Yep, I love you too."  
Sherlock made a show of coughing loudly and pushed open the door. Molly was lounging on the bed in his dressing gown. Her legs were drawn up under her and her brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders. She gave her mobile her best hostile glare.  
"Who was that?" Sherlock asked innocently.  
"Mum." Molly huffed. "Don't pretend you weren't listening outside the door."  
Sherlock put on his best innocent face and moved to get dressed.


	55. Mittens

Prompt fill for the one word prompt "Mittens" from the lovely pesevlejo. I posted this on tumblr a while ago so I apologize if you've already read it.

Molly shivered as the chill December air bit through her thin jacket. She wasn't exactly sure why she was walking through a mostly abandoned park at four a.m on Christmas morning, but here she was. She was tired, an exhaustion that went beyond something physical and began to numb her brain as well. Maybe it was the three autopsies she had had to preform the night before. Autopsies on children were emotionally draining. Sherlock had been out late, some smuggling case. He hadn't been home when she left.

Molly shoved her hands underneath her arms, regretting that she had forgot to bring her mittens. The winter chill hadn't been so bad when she had left her flat but it had swiftly sunk it's frozen teeth into her. Her plaid jacket, designed for autumn, not the middle of winter, did little to keep the cold at bay. She heard a voice behind her and jumped. She had thought she was alone.

"Out alone at four in the morning?" It asked quizzically.

She turned to find Sherlock behind her. She spared a single thought to wonder how exactly he had found her here, in this particular park out of all the parks of London. He was Sherlock, that's how. She shrugged.

"I needed to think. How did you find me?" He hunched his shoulders under the heavy Belstaff to keep himself warmer.

"You weren't in bed." He said as if it was a logical explanation to her question. He opened his coat and she walked to his side, quickly wrapping her arms around his waist to warm herself.

"My dad and I had a tradition. We would go for a walk early on Christmas morning, before the sun was up, before anyone else was awake. It was beautiful. I still take a Christmas walk. It's silly I guess."

They walked through the cold park that was illuminated solely by street lights. Suddenly, Sherlock dipped his hand into the pocket of his coat, retrieving something with a victorious look on his face. He held up a pair of purple fleece mittens. "You forgot your mittens."


	56. Honey

The prompt was "honey" from the lovely MorbidbyDefault/MorbidMegz.  
Molly Holmes had three children. There was a little girl named Maeve who was the spitting image of her father, with beautiful raven curls, blue eyes and porcelain skin. There was a boy named William who looked more like his mother. His skin was just a shade darker than his sister's, his straight hair was auburn, and freckles dotted his nose. His green eyes were bright and cheerful. Her third was a man-child named Sherlock, who also happened to be her husband.  
Molly sighed and pushed her sweaty hair off her forehead. She could hear three different voices calling her name. Sherlock and Will were sprawled on the bed in Sherlock and Molly's bedroom, both stripped down to their underwear, bodies sweaty with fever. Maeve was curled on the sofa, her usually milky face an even lighter shade. Maeve had been the first one to get sick and was almost recovered. Maeve was most like her father, spunky and stubborn. She was different when she was sick, meek and quiet. Sherlock had been the next to come down sick. Sherlock was a nightmare to tend, groaning and complaining, alternately insulting Molly and begging her to rub his hair or sore shoulders. The last straw had been when William had fallen ill. He was an quiet, slightly shy little boy who took after his mother, but when he was sick he was a terror. Molly moved to help Maeve first. The little girl whimpered when she saw her mother and held her arms up towards her. Molly picked her up and rubbed soothing circles on her back.  
"It's alright Mae-Bug, you're okay."  
Molly could feel that the fever was loosening it's hold on Maeve.  
"Do you want to watch a film?"  
Molly asked.  
Maeve nodded and Molly placed her gently on the sofa. Maeve picked up her Teddy Bear and snuggled into the couch. Molly made sure the film was running before she retreated quietly from the living room. Meanwhile, the calls from the bedroom where getting more loud and insistent. She pushed open the door to find Sherlock sprawled weakly on the bathroom floor with his head over the toilet. William was sleeping fitfully on his stomach. Molly moved to help Sherlock back into bed.  
"I called for two minutes and twenty four seconds. Where we you?" His voice was weak and trembling and Molly instantly felt bad.  
"I'm sorry. Maeve needed help. Is there anything you need?"  
He was laying on his stomach now, and she rubbed slow circles on her back like she had for Maeve.  
"Tea." He croaked. "With honey."  
Molly was back in a few minutes with a tray bearing honey, tea, and two mugs. She settled gingerly next to Sherlock on the bed, being careful not to jostle him or the still sleeping Will.  
"I'm not throwing up anymore." He mumbled. His voice was slightly slurred.  
Molly poured the tea into the mug, making sure to add a generous portion of the honey.  
The next morning Molly woke up feeling like she was on fire. She was barely able to make it to the bathroom before she lost her meagre dinner from the night before. She heard Sherlock tromp wearily to the bathroom.  
"Y'alright?" He asked, voice thick with sleep.  
Molly could only shake her head before she began throwing up again.  
Sherlock sat down behind her and held her long hair out of the way. After a few minutes the round of vomiting was done. He held out a hand and helped her up.  
Molly settled into bed and switched on the television. Sherlock sat down next to her.  
"Do you need anything?" He asked.  
"Tea. With honey."


	57. Molly Plays Piano

The prompt was "Molly plays piano" from the lovely SammyKatz. I really changed this one up dear. Hope you like it anyway. :)  
Molly stood in front of the mirror.  
"You look amazing Molls." She heard her friend Evie say from somewhere inside the tangle of blankets that was Molly's bed.  
"It doesn't feel right." Molly smoothed her knee length dress with her palms. "Do I look like I'm trying too hard?"  
Molly felt two hands shoving her towards the door of her bedroom.  
"You look marvelous, he'll love it, now go."  
Sherlock lounged against the mantelpiece in 221B, a perpetual and unshakable frown graced his face. He heard a rap at the door and grimaced. He had no idea why John had insisted on a 'Welcome Home Party'. He despised half of the people in attendance and could only barely tolerate the other half. He heard Molly Hooper somewhere in the hallway and could feel his face contort in an even more miserable expression. Not again. He looked up just in time to see the woman in question enter the room. At least she didn't look like a seven-year-old who had found their Mummy's wardrobe again. She wore a simple black dress that draped elegantly at the neckline and a pair of black ballet flats that shimmered slightly. Her makeup was minimal except for her lipstick, which was a shade of bright red. The color would usually look gaudy, but it seemed to fit Molly. Her hair was curled lightly with the top pulled up. Sherlock sighed. One bullet dodged at least. Molly entered the room a little awkwardly and immediately rushed to her friend Mary Morstan. The two women were immediately deep in conversation.  
The time dragged. It was obvious that the majority of the guests were ill at ease. Suddenly, Sherlock heard a few jarringly dissonant chords being dragged from the A.B Chase that had residence in the corner of the living room. The piano was an antique Chase from the 1930's. It had been in the Holmes family practically since it was constructed and had been passed to Sherlock from his grandfather. Sherlock could play piano quite well, but usually preferred his violin. It had more finesse. He looked up to see a drunken Anderson doing his best to pull an imitation of Scott Joplin's 'The Entertainer' from the poor, tormented keys. Sherlock rolled his eyes and searched the room for his revolver. He wondered if it was possible to kill oneself by sheer mental willpower. He caught a glimpse of Anderson stumbling from the piano. Molly Hooper swiftly took his place. Sherlock shoved his fingers through his hair. This could only be painful.  
Molly touched the keys of the antique piano lovingly. The baby grand reminded her of the one she had played in uni. It was small, only about 4 feet long, but it's tiny size belied the gigantic, majestic sound it could ivory was perfectly smooth, not a single bump to mar the surface. She began to play a simple rendition of Auld Lang Synne, a fitting piece for the time of year. She looked up to see Sherlock rolling his eyes in the corner.  
"That's more than enough Molly." He said once she was finished.  
She could see John elbow him in the ribs, but she ignored both of them and turned back to the piano. She was accustomed to it know, she knew just how much pressure to apply to the keys to get the right sound. She interlaced her fingers and pushed them out. She placed her fingers gently on the keys and began to play.  
Sherlock looked up sharply. He hadn't been expecting to hear what he heard. The strains of a beautiful melody, the notes intertwining in a harmonious dance, filled the room. Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor. He smirked to himself before quickly wiping the gleeful expression from his face. Molly's playing was…adequate. The occupants of the room were mesmerized by the delicate melody.  
Sherlock was only vaguely aware of when the piece came to an end. He could hear clapping, but he was still lost in the sounds that had floated from the piano. Molly had poured her soul into the piece, she had made it her own. It was if Chopin had written it entirely for her. Sherlock moved from where he had stood the whole night and retrieved his violin. He sat on the window ledge and turned towards Molly.  
"Do you know Après Un Reve?" He asked.  
Molly nodded, and the two began the piece together.


	58. Misunderstanding

The prompt (which I have taken the liberty of giving the title word "Misunderstanding") came from the lovely Icemask511.  
Molly sat up from her spot at her desk and stretched. It had been a long day with three autopsies and more paperwork than she had ever dealt with before. She rubbed the heels of hands into her eyes. She heard voices, Sherlock and a woman she didn't know, in the hall outside the morgue. She looked up to see the two of them enter. The woman was tall with light brown hair and an olive complexion. Her eyes were a brilliant shade of amethyst. She was dressed in what were obviously high end designer clothes. Molly couldn't help but dislike her.  
"Two empty slides and hydrochloric acid, Molly." Sherlock barked at her.  
Molly moved to retrieve the requested items but was stopped short by the sound of the woman's voice.  
"Now, Sherly, be nice. You haven't even introduced me to your friend."  
Molly raised an eyebrow. Sherly?  
Sherlock waved his hands in the air like a drowning man.  
"Molly, Claudia. Claudia, Dr Molly Hooper." He ran through the introduction swiftly.  
Claudia held out a hand towards Molly. Molly grasped it unwillingly in her own and was instantly aware of how limp it was in her hand.  
"Pleasure." She muttered before moving to the closet for the supplies.  
When she returned mere minutes later Claudia was draped across a stool. Molly stood in the doorway to better observe the pair. She wasn't spying… they would be able to see her if they looked up. Claudia's tinkling laughter filled the morgue whenever Sherlock spoke.  
"I've got to go Sherlock. A model fainted and my assistant Etienne is in an absolute tizzy. Dinner tonight?"  
Sherlock nodded and allowed himself to be kissed on both cheeks. Claudia was walking out of the morgue when Molly walked in.  
"Lovely to meet you Doctor Hooper."  
Molly merely nodded in reply.  
Half an hour later Molly was done with her paperwork. Sherlock was still seated at the microscope, eagerly examining his specimens.  
"Well, I should be going. I have a date tonight." She said.  
She wasn't really talking to him, she was merely hoping that he would catch some part of it and take the hint to leave.  
"No you don't." He said without looking up. "It's been three months since you've had anything resembling a date. Eating Chinese takeaway with Toby doesn't count."  
The barb stung but Molly decided to ignore it.  
"Don't you have a date with Claudia? Honestly Sherlock, I expected better from you if you were to ever get a girlfriend." Molly hadn't intended to tell him what she thought but she found herself unable to hold it in.  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her, and then actually began to laugh. It was the longest she had ever heard him laugh.  
"There are many objections to our dating. Mycroft never has approved of her and Mummy says her taste in men is subpar. But as far as I know, the biggest social objection is that it is generally frowned upon to date one's cousin."  
Sherlock couldn't contain the chuckles that tore through him at the sight of Molly's shocked face.  
"You know, Mycroft always has approved of you. And I think Mummy would say you have excellent taste in men. But above all else, there are no social objections to dating one's pathologist. Dinner tomorrow?"  
Sherlock swept out of the morgue without even waiting for a reply, leaving a shocked and dumbfounded Molly behind him.


	59. Masquerade

The prompt was "masquerade" from the lovely Freewaygirl. I apologize that this took me such a long time to do. My life has been utter craziness for a while.  
Music twirled through the ballroom, it's airy sound mimicking the dancing couples swirling on the tiled floor. The crystal chandelier refracted the light and cast a multitude of patterns on the dancers below. A solitary young woman stood by the wide open French doors. Her dress, which was a deep midnight blue tulle, was completely unlike anyone else's. She hated standing out but she was deathly afraid that all she would ever do was blend in. She was the only person who was standing alone and she couldn't help but feel a little bitter. The situation was so familiar, standing alone, unwanted. The mask didn't aid her situation and she felt more than a little that her personality must be repellant to those around her. The idea of a masquerade had been stupid anyway.  
Molly walked slowly through the formal garden. She had forgotten that she still wore the blue silk  
mask that she had chosen to match her dress. She heard a cough and turned to find a boy not much older than herself behind her. His hair was unruly and he clutched a mask disdainfully between his long fingers.  
"You don't have a date."  
It was a statement, not a question. Molly shook her head.  
"I don't want to be here at all. Useless triviality. Mummy made me come."  
Molly smiled at his petulant tone.  
"Sherlock Holmes." He extended a hand, which she grasped firmly.  
"Firm handshake. You identify with your father, not your mother. Maybe because she is harsh, possibly because she is gone long hours for work, which is evident by your dress. She wasn't even home tonight. If she was, she would have seen the tear in your hem. The age of your dress indicates that your family is not well to do. It is not new, but not old enough to be purposefully vintage."  
Molly looked at him quizzically. He immediately noticed the question in her glance and shrugged his shoulders.  
"I aim to be a consulting detective. I have to improve my deductive reasoning."  
Molly nodded.  
"I'm going to be a pathologist."  
"Reasonable career choice. Your profession will always be necessary, much more reasonable than the silly makeup artist and fashion designer dreams of your peers."  
He never had learned her name, that mysterious girl he had met at the school formal. But he couldn't help shake the feeling that it was her, his Molly, his pathologist. That night, after their wedding, after all the…craziness that came after, he turned to face her and kissed the corner of her mouth gently.  
"It was you, wasn't it?"  
Molly smiled, her face nearly invisible in the twilight gloom.  
"Took you long enough to figure out."  
He grinned and drew her even closer to his chest.


	60. Sherlock's Tattoo

The prompt was "Sherlock's tattoo" from the lovely MorbidbyDefault/MorbidMegz.  
Molly pulled the brim of her floppy sunhat over her eyes. The bright light of a midday Tuscany sun was beating down on her and she was doing her best to avoid it as much as possible. She could hear Sherlock and John talking nearby.  
"How much longer?" John asked.  
"Twenty minutes. The old lady goes to lunch at exactly twelve thirty every day. At that point her twenty five year younger husband meets his girlfriend here. Be patient."  
Molly couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of Sherlock Holmes telling someone else to be patient. She heard a splash and looked up just in time to see the consulting detective surface in the pool. His sodden curls were pushed off his face. She saw John roll his eyes.  
"Show off." He tossed Sherlock's discarded teeshirt at Molly along with his own and began to swim laps. Molly watched as Sherlock flicked his hair like a wet dog. He braced himself on the edge of the pool and hauled himself out, water streaming down his sides. Molly couldn't help but notice the tiny veins that stood out against his pale shoulders. His very muscular, pale shoulders. She shook her head from side to side as if she could physically remove the thought from her mind. Molly caught a glimpse of something on his pectoral muscle. It was hard to tell exactly what it was from a distance. A bruise maybe? He walked towards her, completely wet, and she was afforded a better view of the strange thing. Just below his collarbone was a tiny tattoo; strange, she wouldn't have pegged him as the tattoo type. Molly squinted to get a better look. It seemed to be words elaborately looping across his chest, but she wasn't entirely sure. The entire tattoo was done in dark blue ink. She hadn't noticed that he was standing directly above her until he stretched an arm impatiently in her face.  
"May I have my shirt, or are you going to continue ogling all day."  
Molly shook herself from her reverie and handed him his teeshirt. She could feel the heat rising to her face and did her best to shove the feeling down. It did no good, as the white material of his teeshirt was see-through almost immediately. It clung to his chest and abdomen, and Molly couldn't help the brilliant shade of brick red spreading further down her neck. She was here as a helper, she shouldn't be noticing these things. But he was making it so bloody hard.  
"Your tattoo." Molly said. "When did you get it?"  
He shrugged as if it were no big deal.  
"Corsica. After I 'died'. Good tattoo artist there, needed to learn about one of his assistants, no easier way than getting a tattoo myself."  
Molly nodded.  
"What does it say?" She asked, fingers absentmindedly tracing the tattoo that she had gotten years before.  
"L'utima Notte. It's…hard to explain."  
Suddenly he sprang from where he was seated on Molly's lounge chair and called for John. Sherlock pointed towards a young man who was amorously snogging a woman in a white bikini.  
"That's him. Justin Whitby. Camera?"  
John placed the camera in his lap and Sherlock snapped a picture of the pair.  
"I believe we have what we need. This should be enough to nab Mr Whitby for murder of his deceased wife Elena Carson Whitby and attempted murder of his current wife, Mrs Ruth Whitby. Let's go stop Mrs Whitby eating her poisoned foie gras, shall we?"


	61. Tango

The prompt was "Molly can tango really well." from the lovely SammyKatz. I'm not quite satisfied with this one, but here goes. :)  
She hadn't been expecting the reaction that she gained. Molly had been dancing her entire life. It was a skill she had learned from her father and it was as natural to her as breathing. She had never thought of dance moves as sultry or seductive, they were merely ways of expressing oneself to music. She might have forgotten the fact that Sherlock didn't know she could dance, let alone dance a fiery tango, but she really didn't see what he was so riled up about. Sure, looking back on it, there was quite a bit of unnecessary hip shaking, but she chalked it up to one too many flutes of champagne. It was a wedding reception after all.  
Molly enjoyed the feeling of her dress swishing around her legs. She had learned the dance by heart, knew each hip waggle, each tiny piece of intricate foot work. She glanced up at her partner and then back down at her feet. She could see Sherlock glowering at her from a corner. She brushed it off as his usual aggravated self and moved into a new piece of complicated footwork.  
Molly sat down breathlessly. She smiled at her cousin Tim with whom she had just completed a rather wearying tango. It had been so long since she had danced in any way, but the moment she had stepped on the dance floor it was as if her body knew instinctively what it was to be doing. It had felt nice to be dancing to a familiar song. Molly felt a hand wrap around her wrist and before she knew exactly what was happening she was being dragged from the reception hall and into a side corridor.  
"Well that was hardly appropriate." Sherlock growled.  
There was a bit of anger in his voice, but his clammy palms, elevated heart rate, and dilated pupils betrayed other warring feelings that he was trying to suppress. Molly felt the cool wall pressing against her thin cotton dress.  
"What?" She asked.  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his look a cross between anger and something not quite distinguishable. Molly shoved at his encircling arms. Was it really necessary to shove her against the wall EVERY time he was the least bit angry, turned on, irritated or bored? She was going to start keeping a journal of every wall in London that had been graced with her presence.  
"Tim's my cousin. We danced. Tell me what's inappropriate."  
Sherlock stared at her for a minute.  
"Didn't act like your cousin." He muttered.  
"It's a blooming tango Sherlock!"  
"Fine. Whatever. You can dance all you want. Seduce all the men in London with your superior dancing skills. But not like that. At least not in public. Now at home…"  
Sherlock grunted when Molly elbowed him in the ribcage. The strains of a new dance, a waltz, floated towards them.  
"Well?"  
Sherlock extended a hand towards Molly. The other was still rubbing at his sore ribcage.  
"Shall we?"  
"I thought you didn't want me to dance." Molly's tone was deceptively light and Sherlock knew to trod carefully.  
"I never said anything about waltz."


	62. Serenade

The prompt was "Serenade" from the lovely Lais89.  
Molly was used to waking to strange noises. Toby mewling in her ear for food, jackhammers on the noisy street below her window and her neighbors fighting raucously next door were all sounds she was accustomed to. She was not accustomed, however, to waking to a violin being played outside her bedroom door at eight am.  
It had been a long week. Molly had had more autopsies than she could count and the paperwork had been fairly overwhelming. She had fallen asleep at close to midnight, and as she was off work Friday, had hoped to sleep as late as humanly possible. Molly was vaguely aware of strains of music floating towards her. She couldn't identify the sounds at first, but was soon awake enough to realize that a violin was playing Vocalise by Rachmaninoff. It was her favorite piece and she had left her recording of Joshua Bell's performance in her aged CD player. She could only assume that Toby had accidentally switched it on in his morning quest for food. It wouldn't be the first time. Molly attempted to go to back to sleep, slightly soothed by the familiar melody, when she heard a voice that was most definitely not on her recording.  
"I know you're awake in there Molly."  
She sat up, startled, before she recognized the voice.  
"Sherlock what are you doing in my flat at eight am?"  
She asked, moving towards the door. She stopped to retrieve her dressing gown from the closet.  
"Playing violin."  
"Why thank you for that revelation." Molly said, voice slightly husky from sleep. "And why exactly are you playing violin here?"  
She could almost hear the shrug in Sherlock's voice.  
"John didn't want me to play at home. Don't ask me why. Anyways, I have learned from reliable sources that it is customary to serenade one's…girlfriend."  
Sherlock was still resistant to use the term 'girlfriend', but she had realized he was more willing to refer to her as his girlfriend than he was to be called her boyfriend.  
"I didn't have a boombox, and the grass under your window is completely damp so I figured this was the second best option."  
Molly opened the door to find Sherlock sitting opposite it with his legs stretched out in front of him, violin in hand. He wore a pair of plaid pajama pants and a tight fitting grey teeshirt.  
"Did you walk all the way here dressed like that?"  
Molly's flat was about four city blocks from 221B.  
"Don't be ridiculous Molly. I got a cab."  
Sherlock stood up and stretched and Molly could hear the vertebrae in his back crack into place.  
"Just for curiosity's sake, how long have you been here?" She asked, stopping to kiss him briefly before making her way to her tiny kitchen. He followed her, scraping his bow heedlessly across the strings.  
"About an hour and a half."  
He settled on the counter and watched Molly gather the ingredients for double chocolate muffins. They were her remedy for a bad week. "Long week?" He asked, nodding his head towards the pile of ingredients on the counter.  
Molly nodded dismissively and cracked the eggs one after the other into the mixing bowl. Sherlock settled further backwards and made himself as comfortable as a man of his height could be on a countertop. Molly danced around her tiny kitchen and made muffins while Sherlock played Rossini.


	63. Mind Palace

The prompt was "Sherlock realizes how horribly he treats Molly while in his mind palace" from the lovely SammyKatz. It's rather "Christmas Carol"-esque.  
Control. Control was the thread that held his life together, he cherished control more than anything else. The word was emblazoned on the door of his mind palace, a daily reminder of the purpose in everything he did. He had always had complete control over his mind palace, he had the ability to call up information at will. The day he lost control in his own mental sanctuary was the day of catharsis, the day of change.  
It had started as a normal trip. He had garnered the necessary information for the case he was working on and was preparing to leave when he felt an arresting hand on his arm. That was the first unusual thing that happened to him. He had never encountered another person in his mind palace before. The woman's face was incredibly familiar but he couldn't quite place it, the name that went with the face floated just beyond his grasp. The woman tugged him backwards and he felt himself falling.  
Memories flashed past him in quick succession like a film on fast forward. Faces, some smiling, some disgusted, some sneering stood out briefly against the blur of colour. The memories slowed down, a particular one coming into focus.  
"Who are you?" He managed to gasp as he felt himself being dragged into the scene that was being played out in front of him.  
His unknown guide smiled and pointed at the memory. Sherlock observed from a distance.  
It was five weeks after she came to Bart's. He was vaguely aware of the event transpiring at some point in the past. He had realized soon after their first meeting that she was completely head over heels, and he was honestly quite glad of the fact. The weakness, the sentimentality, would be easy to manipulate. It had been obvious to him that she had recently gotten a boyfriend, the more flattering clothes and the increase in makeup had been enough to let him know of her new romantic attachment. He resented it. He had been slightly aggravated by what would invariably lead to her decreased infatuation with him. Sherlock watched as the past version of himself confronted Molly.  
"You've a boyfriend." He said simply.  
She had looked up surprisedly, extreme satisfaction written on her face.  
"Yes, his name's Theo he's…"  
He had known that he had to stop this relationship before it progressed. There was no way he was going to forfeit one of the only competent pathologists in London to romantic sentimentality.  
"You shouldn't pursue it."  
Molly turned around, her arms crossed defensively across her chest.  
"And why not?"  
"It would…disappoint me greatly."  
He could distinctly remember the look of hope and pleasure on her face. He had never heard of Theo again. Just as quickly as it had come, the memory was gone.  
It was a technique he had used multiple times, leading her along, feigning just enough interest to get her to do what he wanted. He shuddered at a brief still of himself, a younger version of himself, kissing Molly against a wall. It was the farthest he had gone, later blaming it on adrenaline from a case. And of course, she had gone with it, as she always did. Another memory slowed down, standing out in harsh relief.  
Memory-Sherlock was in the morgue. He honestly didn't even remember the situation. He tried to talk but the woman shushed him and pointed toward the two speaking figures.  
They were ghost-like, their forms flickering like they were on a telly with bad reception. Sherlock watched as the memory-Molly began to speak.  
"Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later when you're finished—"  
"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before." He had cut her off.  
"I, uh, I refreshed it a bit."  
He was unsure why he had commented on something so inconsequential.  
"Sorry. You were saying?"  
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?"  
"Black, two sugars please. I'll be upstairs."  
The memory floated away slowly.  
"Are we done now?" He asked, unsure of why his voice was choked and hoarse.  
The guide shook her head and pointed to one last scene. Unlike the others, it was not one of his own memories. He had less than no idea how it had wormed it's way into his mind palace.  
"What…?" He began, but the woman shushed him.  
He saw Molly seated in her bedroom, arms clasped around her pillow, staring intently at her mobile phone. Obviously waiting for a call.  
"C'mon Sherlock. Where are you? Just call me, okay? Let me know you aren't dead somewhere. Please."  
Sherlock could feel his eyebrows furrow. And then he remembered. He had promised to call her, text her, anything, while he took down Moriarty's gang. And he never had. He didn't know that it had affected her in the way it obviously had. She had acted the same as always when he returned to life, willing to help, willing to overlook his flaws. For the first time he finally realized the impact of what he had done. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt guilty.  
Sherlock woke up screaming. He didn't know at what point he had drifted from his mind palace to sleep, but here he was, screaming, face wet, with Mrs Hudson standing nervously over him.  
"Are you alright dear?"  
"No. Absolutely not. But I will be. I have to go and find Molly."  
He ran out of the flat, only stopping to retrieve his shoes. Mrs Hudson smiled indulgently at his swiftly retreating back.  
"Took you long enough love." She muttered, setting about straightening the disordered flat.


	64. Josh Groban

The prompt was "Sherlock singing a Josh Groban song" from the lovely SherlollyintheTARDIS. The song Sherlock sings is "Gira Con Me Questa Notte." If you don't know the words in English, look them up. They are rather fitting. If you don't know the song, go forth and listen.  
Molly felt two arms wrap around her. They settled on top of her seven month pregnant belly and the fingers began to slowly caress the swollen bump.  
"You know, this young Holmes is going to be a marvelous musician." She heard the melodic voice of her husband croon in her ear.  
She smiled as he walked around to her front and dropped to his knees in front of her. His face, uncharacteristically eager, looked up at her with his eyes bright.  
"We might as well start it's music education early."  
Trust Sherlock Holmes to begin his child's education in utero. He shoved her tank top up to reveal her bump and leaned forward.  
"Hello in there. It's your daddy." He murmered, lips gracing across her bare belly. Molly smiled at the term of affection which she would never have expected him to use. "I think you are going to be a wonderful musician, like me. Now I am going to sing to you, and I want you to listen carefully."  
He paused. Molly could see the cogs in his brain turning as he decided on a song to sing. Molly had learned soon after she began dating Sherlock that his favorite singer was Josh Groban. Molly had often returned from work late at night to hear the beautiful recordings floating through the flat.  
"Ahh…" He sighed softly.  
His voice filled the otherwise silent room. His singing never ceased to amaze her. It was nothing short of divine. All the grace, all the beauty in his speaking voice, in his very manner, was channeled into something so purely gorgeous that it could almost make you cry. He knew it was her favorite song, she knew he had chosen it for her.  
"Il mondo gira con noi questa notte  
Ahhhh, esistesse lontano da qui  
Un posto dove scoprire il mio cuore  
Sapere se lui puo' amare ti o no."  
Molly closed her eyes, allowing herself to be wrapped in the comfortingly familiar melody. His voice was soothing, and she could feel the baby relaxing even as she did.  
"E un giorno lui si si capira  
Un giorno lui si ti capira."  
His voice died away softly and he immediately looked to her for her approval. He stood and she wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him close to kiss him.  
"That was…wonderful." She breathed.  
He nodded.  
"Just giving this child an introduction to one of the best musicians of the world. My Josh Groban, Ithzak Perlman, Joshua Bell, and Andrea Bocelli albums will have to do in my absence."  
Molly shoved him playfully and he stopped down to return his lips to her belly.  
"I'll play some Shostakovich on the violin for you tomorrow. I believe you'll enjoy it." He whispered.


	65. Microscope

The prompt was "Sherlock teaches 4 year old Will how to use a microscope" from a lovely Guest who left me some absolutely lovely reviews. To anyone who has given me a prompt that I haven't filled, I apologize profusely. My laptop lost my master prompt list so I have been recovering them.  
The first thing Molly was aware of was the lack of a warm body beside her. She had always said that her husband was like a radiator, the body heat that rolled off of him almost negated the need for blankets. It wasn't aware of what day it was until her feet hit the chilly wood floor. Christmas. The date added to her surprise at her husband's being awake. He hated waking up early on Christmas, something about hoping to miss the early morning Holmes Christmas party. She followed her nose to the kitchen, the smell of strong coffee leading her through the slightly darkened flat to the kitchen. Molly could hear two muffled voices floating towards her from the living room.  
"No, no, that dial. Very good."  
There was a momentary pause and then a high pitched squeak of pleasure.  
"I see it know!"  
"Very good. Now if you turn this one you will be able to see it in more detail."  
He didn't. He wouldn't have. Would he? Molly wouldn't be surprised if it were anyone else, but Sherlock Holmes? He wasn't exactly the type to get over-excited about his children's Christmas presents. Molly snuck into the living room, doing her best to avoid the chronically squeaky floorboards. The sight that greeted her brought her the biggest smile she could remember. Sherlock and Will were stretched on the floor on their stomachs, a brand new shiny microscope settled in front of them. The discarded wrapping paper and box were thrown carelessly behind them. Will was looking through the microscope and Sherlock was watching with unmistakable pride on his face.  
"You should be a scientist like your mummy, William. Did you know your mummy is the best pathologist in London?"  
Molly coughed to alert them to her presence. Will did his best to hide the fact that he was using his Christmas present. Molly laughed and scooped him off the floor.  
"Merry Christmas Will!" She smothered his face in kisses while he wiggled and squirmed.  
"I am a scientist Mummy! Scientists don't like to be kissed."  
"I'm not too sure about that…last night definitely gave evidence to the contrary." She heard Sherlock murmur from the floor.  
Molly nudged him in the ribs with her toe.  
"Good morning to you too." She set the boy down and joined her husband on the floor. He pulled her into an awkward hug and she kissed him as Will trotted off to wake Maeve.  
"He's going to be brilliant. Quite a lot of potential lying dormant in that little boy. All it needs is a tiny bit of fuel to turn that ember of genius into a roaring blaze. He's a lot like you."  
Molly kissed his cheek before pushing herself off the cold floor.  
"I hope you realize that you have become entirely sentimental Mr Holmes."  
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but was instead smothered by two small bodies flying at him in a flurry of Christmas-themed pajamas.


	66. Anderson

The prompt was "Molly starts dating Anderson" from the lovely Icemask511.  
"You're doing WHAT?"  
Anderson shrugged his shoulders carelessly.  
"Yeah, we went on two dates. It's been good so far."  
The hate rolling off of Sherlock Holmes was palpable.  
"No." His lips were set in a grim, hard line.  
"Excuse me?"  
"I. Said. No."  
Anderson turned on his heel and strolled away, completely ignoring the daggers being shot into his back. If looks could kill he would be a cold, stiff corpse.  
"Molly! Mollly! Molllllyyyyy!"  
Molly woke with a start. Again with the bloody dreams. She flipped over, ready to fall back asleep when the voice from her dreams pierced the otherwise silent air of her flat.  
"Molly!"  
She groaned and ground her palms into her eyes. Why in heaven's name was he in her flat at…3 a.m. She followed the sound of his voice through the pitch black flat, only crashing into the sofa, a sleeping Toby and a table in the hallway. She could see a pinprick of light which she approached warily. There was no telling why he was in her kitchen at 3 in the morning.  
Sherlock was reclined, apparently quite comfortably, in one of her kitchen chairs. He looked up at her approach.  
"You're not allowed to date that idiot."  
"Excuse me?" Molly's voice was husky.  
"Anderson! You're not allowed to date that repulsive mongrel."  
Molly felt her eyebrows furrow in sleepy confusion.  
"Date…Anderson?"  
Sherlock was standing now, pacing wildly and gesticulating with his hands.  
"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I was called to a crime scene late tonight and he told me all about your vile affair."  
Molly felt herself grow suddenly angry.  
"Vile affair? Sherlock, he and I went to a performance of the LSO together because I was given tickets and couldn't find anyone else to take."  
"You could have taken me." He muttered irritably.  
"I mentioned it. You said something completely unintelligible before rushing out of the morgue."  
Sherlock looked defeated for a moment before sudden realization sprung to his eyes.  
"Anderson said TWO dates. What was the second?" His tone was accusatory.  
Molly shrugged.  
"We were working at Bart's, it was late, I ordered pizza."  
Sherlock groaned, rubbed his palms into his eyes and slumped backwards into a chair.  
"Well, since that's settled, you're coming to dinner with me, Saturday night."  
"Excuse me?"  
As often as Molly had dreamed of this moment, something along the lines of those exact words, she had never anticipated it happening in this way. Not in her flat, not at some ungodly hour of the morning, and most definitely not with her in her purple kitten pajama shorts and a sports bra.  
"We need to take action to make certain that Anderson doesn't act on his delusional fantasies."  
With that, Sherlock crossed to her kitchen window, unlatched it, threw his leg over the sill and jumped to the grass below. Molly shook her head in amazement, watching as he hailed a nearby taxi. Good old Anderson. She had never expected his and John's crazy scheme to work. But then again, she had never believed them that Sherlock would get jealous in he first place. What a crazy thing life was.


	67. Hospital

The prompt was "Molly is ill in the hospital and Sherlock plans a surprise to cheer her up" from the lovely Freewaygirl.  
Sudoku. If she looked at one more bloody sudoku puzzle she would go insane and rampage through the hospital on a killing spree. It was bad enough that she was stuck in the hospital with severe anemia, but the incredible boredom of being forced to stay in a bed and stare at the same walls for hours on end was enough to drive any sane person to hysterical psychopathy. Sherlock was asleep in a chair, his head sunk on his chest, curls flopped in his face. She had begged him to stay, she hadn't wanted to be alone, but it was honestly more trouble than it was worth. He had been rude to the nurses, insisted the doctor was a moron, and had nearly been kicked out thrice already. At least he was asleep now. She figured his incessant rudeness had tired him out. Molly heard a knock on the door and saw Sherlock jolt awake at the sudden noise. A man Molly recognized as one of Mycroft's minions snuck surreptitiously into the room. She wasn't sure what good the sneaking would do until she noticed a large bag behind his back that he was obviously trying to hide from the nurses.  
"You should have forty five minutes Mr Holmes. Then there will be another blood test."  
He nodded at the man, who tiptoed from the room. Sherlock pulled the blinds aftr glancing warily down the hall. Molly couldn't help but laugh at the James Bond manner that Sherlock had assumed. There was another knock and Molly saw a woman standing impatiently outside with a large box that she was doing her best to hide. Sherlock hurried to the door and took the box. Molly could hear a whispered exchange.  
"Two more." The woman said under her breath.  
Two more boxes arrived and Sherlock set to work unpacking. The first bag contained a bottle of champagne, two candles, matches, a white linen table cloth, plates, wine glasses, and cutlery. Sherlock dragged a table up to Molly's bed and set it. She had never realized he had a skill as _normal_ as setting a table correctly. He placed the three boxes on the table and opened them one by one. A roasted chicken, fresh bread, a large salad, raspberries, and a cheesecake were laid out neatly inside. Sherlock divided the food between the two plates while Molly watched him quizzically, silently begging for an explanation.  
"The food here is rubbish, I have no idea how they expect you to get well again with food like that. So I called in my own."  
Molly leaned over to kiss him, her eyes twinkling.  
"You made me a picnic! Granted, it is the most covert, Sherlockian picnic ever, but still…"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"My name is not an adjective. Eat. Before we get caught."


	68. Coloring Books

The prompt was "Molly loves coloring books" from the wonderful xLovely-Little-Psychopathx.  
Molly felt her eyes fill with tears. It had been an incredibly long day at Bart's, her morning sickness had lasted well past morning (the person who termed it "morning sickness" was a cruel joker), and she had returned to 221B to find an empty flat. There was no note, not a single text on her mobile, and no voicemail to alert her to Sherlock's whereabouts. She had thought this immature dashing off had stopped when she had gotten pregnant. If she found out that he and John had gone to Australia for that ruddy case without telling her…  
There really was only one thing to do. Molly had no desire to cry and she could only think of one way to cheer herself up. Molly tiptoed warily to the corner cupboard. She wasn't really sure why she was sneaking, there was no one home to see her, but it was a long accustomed habit. She reached up for the very last shelf that Sherlock always seemed to ignore and retrieved a shoe box from a dark corner. She took the shoe box to the living room and settled it onto the table. It hadn't been opened for quite a while, the last time was when Sherlock had gotten himself shot in Vienna, and a layer of dust was settled thickly on top. Molly removed the lid and smiled at the contents.  
"Molly! I'm home! John and I only went to check on the records for the…"  
Sherlock trailed off when he noticed his largely pregnant wife asleep at the coffee table, her legs tucked up beneath her. Her head was resting on her hands, the sprawl of limbs covered something beneath her hands. Sherlock walked over to investigate, careful to be quiet. Molly needed her sleep. She had been suffering from terrible insomnia for the duration of and he did NOT want to be the one to interrupt her sleep. It would not go well for him. He shifted her head to a more comfortable position and tugged her hands away from whatever they were covering. He grinned. Who knew? Sherlock gathered the coloring book and crayons and deposited them into the shoebox that was obviously their makeshift storage container. The assortment of coloring books had been unique. There was a Disney Princess one, an older anatomy coloring book, and three thick ones dedicated to myriad small animals. He swiftly deduced that it was a habit that had carried over from childhood. Molly had been forced too mature to swiftly and the childish habit had been the only thing to linger.  
Sherlock scooped Molly up and made his way to the bedroom. Picking her up had become slightly more difficult, she had become a little more front-heavy since becoming pregnant. He settled her gently on the bed, grateful that she was already in her pajamas. Molly sighed in her sleep and settled into the new environment. He saw her eyes crack open ever so slightly.  
"G'night Sherlock."  
He smiled at her childish, sleepy tone as he pulled his dress shirt over his head, completely disregarding the buttons. He settled next to her in the bed and pulled her close.

Molly looked up from her desk when she heard a quiet knock. She opened the door to her office to find a teenage boy shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot.  
"A delivery for you Doctor Holmes."  
He shoved a parcel in her hands and hurried down the hall. Molly opened the package quickly, slitting the tape with a spare scalpel. A half dozen coloring books and three new packages of crayons were nestled amongst the brown paper packaging.


	69. Sarah Jane

The prompt was "Sherlock comforts Molly on the anniversary of her friend Sarah Jane's death." from the lovely SammyKatz.  
Molly cuddled her knees to her chest. She had woken up that morning under a cloud, a feeling of depression and gloom had settled so thickly on her that she had been unable even to go to work. She could only be thankful that Mike had understood when she had called in sick. Sherlock had been gone for four days, and her only wish was that he would hurry up and solve the stupid case so that he could be home with her. She hadn't expected the sadness that was settled like a heavy rock in her stomach. It had been years, seven to be exact. She should have moved on by now. But here it was, April 17th, and she was in the exact position as she had been the year before, and the one before that… all the way back to that poisonous morning.  
She heard the door open but ignored it. It wasn't him of course, he would have sent a text. She rolled over to see her mobile screen blinking. It was him then. She heard heavy footsteps approaching the bedroom door which was pushed open slowly. She saw her boyfriend's tall body framed by the light from the hallway that poured in through the open door. He took in her position at a glance.  
"I didn't now what day it was." He said quietly, settling on the edge of the bed.  
He looked different than usual, his usually messy curls were slicked back, his long coat replaced by a denim jacket, the Italian leather shoes swapped for a beaten-up pair of black Converse high-tops. He tugged the jacket off, bent to unlace the shoes and pulled his white teeshirt off. The clothing was thrown in a careless heap on the floor. He lay down next to Molly, one arm cradling her waist, the other near her head so he could run his fingers through her hair.  
"She was wonderful. Amazing. Sarah Jane was like a second mum to me, and each year it seems to get harder, not easier. I miss her." Her voice was solid and steady, not a single trace of grief betrayed in her tone.  
He nodded, a gentle, soothing murmur left his lips which were placed inches from her ear.  
"I know." He said quietly.  
Molly snuggled backwards into his chest, her eyes slowly closing. Grief tired her out, and with him here she could finally go to sleep.  
"Will you stay here?" She asked, voice quiet and soft like a sad child's. "Until I'm asleep, that is."  
He nodded, the arm around her waist tightening slightly. He kissed her hair gently as she twisted so that her face was settled into the crook of his neck.  
They stayed there, not saying a word, barely moving, until Molly fell asleep.


	70. Outdoors

The prompt was "Sherlock sees Molly outside for the first time" from the lovely Bellarsam Chrisjulittle.

He had never realized that he had only seen Molly in the artificial light of the morgue. The morgue light had a tendency to bleach you out, the bright fluorescent bulbs gave a dull sheen to faces and hair. He had always thought of Molly as having average looks. There was nothing spectacular about her hair, her skin was slightly pasty… but it wasn't until one early September morning that he learned how wrong he really was.

Sherlock looked up from his phone at the voice behind him. He had been waiting for almost an hour and had almost set to work on his own.

"Um, you asked me to come here?"

Sherlock turned quickly…and was frozen dead in his tracks. He had called Molly, but the woman who was standing mere feet away barely resembled the pathologist. The face was the same, there was still the same horrendous taste in clothing, but something had changed. He wracked his brain, but it still took him a minute to place the difference. Her hair, usually a shade of drab brown, had turned a brilliant chestnut in the early morning sunshine. Her skin was radiant, the golden hues of the sunrise brought out the natural blush of her face. Her makeup was minimal, a small amount of eyeshadow and mascara, but Sherlock found that he preferred it that way. He realized he had never seen Molly outside of the harsh light of the morgue.

"Sherlock? Why did you call me here?"

"Oh. Um, yes. I needed you're expertise…" He gestured vaguely with his hands towards their surroundings, which happened to be a large, open moor.

He couldn't account for his sudden lack of words. He was acclimating to seeing Molly in this new environment…that was it.

"My expertise?"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from her large ones, which sparkled brightly in the sunlight. He took a second to compose himself. Why did he have to compose himself?

"Ah yes. The traces of blood and flesh need analyzed, but the samples are to delicate to transport. I needed an extra pair of hands, and John is gone for the weekend."

Molly nodded briskly and set to work unpacking the supplies Sherlock had brought with him as he smiled to himself. He would need to ask Molly for her assistance on more outdoor cases.


	71. Spring Cleaning

The prompt was "Spring Cleaning" from a lovely guest.  
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Molly had thoroughly cleaned the flat, and she was more than tired of the accumulated dust and messy clothes stacked against the wall. Today was the day.  
Molly rolled out of bed, ignoring the arm stretching out after her.  
"C'mon Molly. It's Sunday morning. Come back to bed!"  
"Nope. This flat WILL be cleaned, or I will die trying."  
Molly saw something akin to mortal terror spring into Sherlock's eyes at the mention of the word cleaning.  
"I could think of better ways to spend the day."  
His tone became deep and seductive, and Molly rolled his eyes. It was his usual tactic on how to avoid cleaning of any sort. He tugged at her wrist. Sherlock managed to tumble Molly backwards into the bed, but she climbed back out while he attempted to wrap his arms around her waist.  
Molly was used to Sherlock lounging around the flat in various states of dress and undress. He was a creature addicted to comfort, even though he did his best to hide the fact under a Spartan exterior. Comfort and ease took precedence in all aspects of his wardrobe. Molly was not used, however, to a nearly naked Sherlock parading majestically through the flat while she attempted to deep clean the carpets.  
"Molly?" The woman in question looked up to see her boyfriend curled catlike in an armchair.  
"Care to join me?" He asked.  
She did her best to ignore his bare chest, how his plaid boxer shorts rode up his muscled thighs. She really needed to finish cleaning the baseboards… Molly turned her back to Sherlock and began to scrub furiously.  
"Sherlock, you need to help me with the dishes at least!"  
The detective stood from where he has been shamelessly ogling her and stretched luxuriously.  
"Fine."  
Molly was unsure of the reason behind the mischievous glint in his eyes, she chose to ignore it.  
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
Sherlock shrugged innocently where he was wedged behind Molly. His arms were wrapped tightly against her waist and his front was pressed tightly to her back. He reached for the squeezy bottle of soap on the counter.  
"I'll wash, you dry."  
She wasn't sure if it was intentional or a lucky (for him) coincidence. The only thing she knew was that one second she was happily drying dishes, and that the next her entire front was soaked with sudsy dishwater.  
"Sherlock!" She squeaked.  
Sherlock chuckled gleefully, and Molly was fairly certain by the giddy look on his face that the miniature fountain had been entirely intentional.  
"It looks like that shirt's going to have to come off. We really don't want you to catch a cold."  
He advanced slowly and fiddled with the hem of her tee shirt while capturing her lips for a teasing kiss.  
"These dishes can be done later…"Molly muttered resignedly.

Sherlock hummed in agreement from where his lips were already attached to the dip in her collarbone. Molly made a mental note not to do the cleaning with Sherlock in the flat.


	72. Autumn

The prompt was "Sherlock and Molly spend an autumn day with their kids in the countryside" and came from the lovely Freewaygirl.  
Molly tugged Maeve's jacket a little tighter and adjusted her cap on her curly hair. She giggled as she watched Sherlock struggle with Will's baby-sized jumper. He finally managed to slide the buttons through the holes while Will giggled and squirmed. He plunked the little boy in Molly's arms and followed Maeve out the bedroom door. Molly could hear him muttering something about 'that blasted jumper'. She bundled William into her arms and followed her husband and daughter out the door.  
Molly watched as Maeve galloped through the crunching leaves. They were visiting Sherlock's parents for the weekend, but like the majority of their visits, most of the day was spent in Sherlock devising ways to avoid actually being in the vicinity of any relatives. Molly wasn't sure why Sherlock abhorred being in the same room as any of his family, but she must say, she was a tad bit grateful. Mummy Holmes made her just a bit uncomfortable. They were currently in the stand of trees behind the large manor house. The woods were multiple shades of vibrant red and orange, the leaves coating the ground like a multicolored carpet. Maeve had long since tugged Sherlock's glove-clad hand out of Molly's, destroying any idea her mother had had of a calm, romantic walk in the woods. Sherlock had shrugged at her apologetically and tromped after Maeve. They had been pretending to be Robin Hood and two of his merry men ever since. Will was situated on Sherlock's shoulders, his fingers twisted tightly in Sherlock's curls. Molly smiled at the sight of the usually reticent detective with a wide grin plastered on his face. Sherlock occasionally stopped to point out unique plants or soil samples to his daughter. Molly had to cut in when he got onto the subject of a particularly gruesome murder where clay soil proved a man's alibi.  
Molly lay in the queen bed in their room at the Holmes house later that night. Sherlock was flopped next to her, obviously exhausted, an orange leaf stuck in his curls. Maeve had insisted that both Sherlock and Molly roll in a giant leaf pile she had made, and Sherlock must have managed to miss the leaf when he had cleaned up afterwards. Molly reached for the leaf and stuck it in between the pages of the book she was reading. Sherlock looked at her curiously, but she only shrugged.  
"Sentiment?" His tone wasn't mocking, only curious.  
"Sentiment."


	73. Bathing Maeve

The prompt was "Sherlock bathes Maeve (and havoc ensues)" and came from the lovely SilverOcean01.  
Molly slid from the back of the cab and waved at Mary, who was in reclined in the backseat. She kicked off her heels and trotted up the steps to the flat. She had left Sherlock alone with Maeve for the night, it was the first time she had been out since the baby was born. Five months was quite a while. What could have gone wrong?  
Molly wasn't sure if it was a good thing that the flat was quiet and dark. She dropped her shoes at the door and made her way to the bedroom. She stopped suddenly when she felt the carpeting in the hallway squelch beneath her bare feet. Molly followed the soggy trail to the door of the bathroom. She could hear the slippery sounds of wet bodies in the bathtub and pushed the door open. She wasn't sure if she should smile or grimace at what she saw.  
Sherlock was sitting in the bathtub with his knees drawn up to his chest. His curls hung limply on his forehead. Maeve was settled on his legs, nearly asleep, her skin bright pink. Baby shampoo and washcloths had been tossed out of tugs tub, the shampoo had tipped on it's side, the clear goo spilling onto the tile floor. Water had been splashed out of the bathtub and down the sides, large puddles were ankle deep on the bathroom floor. Molly's mobile (which she had been searching for all night) had been dropped in one of the myriad pools of water. Toby was sitting, obviously quite angrily, on the sink, his fur drenched. Sherlock looked up to see Molly framed in the door.  
"Maeve needed a bath. She was quite wiggly when she was in the bath alone and wouldn't quit crying, which is the cause of the puddles. I had no idea one four month old baby could splash that much. She seemed to be happier when Toby was in the bath with her, but he didn't seem to like it for some reason. He knocked your mobile off the sink when he jumped out of the bathtub. You must have left it there when you were getting ready. I was left with no other choice than to bathe with Maeve."  
He gestured at the pile of clothes (a baby's sleeper, a pink cloth diaper, a purple dress shirt, white boxer shorts, and grey trousers) that were on the floor in a crumpled, soggy mass.  
"Care to join us?"  
Molly stripped off her yellow dress and undergarments and climbed into the bathtub, slopping more water over the side. She would have to clean up later, but for now it was worth it.


	74. Date

The prompt was "Sherlock and Molly on a date" from the lovely Melody Starr31.  
Molly glanced around the dimly lit restaurant and gasped in surprise. The restaurant was much nicer than anything she had expected and she suddenly felt vastly underdressed in her skinny jeans and blouse. Candles lit the interior, the flickering flames lent an almost creepy atmosphere to the room, which was exacerbated by the blood-red walls. The restaurant was nearly empty, the only occupants beside Sherlock and herself were an older couple and a man who was siting alone. They were led to one of many empty tables and menus and a carafe of water were placed in front of them.  
Molly wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock hasn't slipped into his mind palace. His eyes were vacant and his replies were confined to monosyllabic grunts of affirmation. Molly would have been worried if they had been earlier in their relationship, concerned that he found her uninteresting and dull, but she had grown accustomed to these sort of strange nights out. At least she was able to enjoy a decent dinner and wine. Besides, Sherlock usually made up for the uninteresting nights out later on.  
Molly glanced up from her now empty plate after almost forty minutes. The restaurant was eerily silent, as if the few diners who had straggled in were afraid to be caught conversing.  
"Is there anything you want to tell me about this case you're obviously caught up in?" Molly asked.  
Sherlock glanced up from where his chin was resting on his finger tips and nodded.  
"Just this. Duck."  
Molly was grateful that she had learned to obey unquestioningly when Sherlock's voice gained a deathly urgent tone. She ducked, and just seconds later felt a bullet whiz past her ear. She looked up worryingly, but was relieved to see that Sherlock, too, was slumped, entirely alright, over the table. He sat up, brushing at the front of his suit coat.  
"Just as I thought." He muttered, observing Lestrade and a particularly bulky officer chase down the fleeing shooter.  
"I didn't think he would wait too long after he saw me to make his move."  
Sherlock stood up and offered his hand to Molly, who was breathing heavily.  
"I believe there is a well reputed ice cream store around the corner if you would care for dessert?"  
Molly could only nod as she endeavoured to regain her breath.  
"Well that was a highly satisfactory date." Sherlock grinned, plucking a breadstick off the table and munching contentedly.


	75. Breakfast in Bed

The prompt was "Sherlock attempts to make a romantic breakfast for his new wife Molly." from the lovely SilverOcean01.  
Molly woke to the sound of banging pot lids, a blaring smoke alarm, and muffled cursing. The smoke alarm was swiftly silenced (apparently by a slipper being fling in its vicinity) and the flat was silent for a single minute. Molly heard an outraged yowl of pain and jumped swiftly out of bed, reaching for Sherlock's dress shirt that was flung carelessly over a chair. She pulled the shirt over her head, not bothering to do up more than the first three buttons, and jogged to the kitchen to insure that her husband had not managed to disembowel himself. Sherlock had obviously heard her coming. He met her in the hallway, shoving her backwards towards their bedroom.  
"Not yet!" He huffed. "Wait a minute."  
Molly sat in bed, doing her best to block out the intermittent swearing from the kitchen. They had been back from their romantic tropical honeymoon for exactly two weeks, and Sherlock had not ceased to surprise her. She was fairly certain that he was either currently making her breakfast in bed or performing a vivisection on an elephant. With the periodic outraged yelps, it could go either way.  
Molly heard the door to her bedroom creak open and looked up from the book she was attempting to read. Sherlock was backing through the open door, a tray balanced in his large hands. Molly drew her feet up to make room for him on the bed. A pot of tea and a bowl of strawberries sat on the tray. At first, Molly was curious about the banging pots, but her questions were soon answered. Sherlock made a dismissive wave of the hand.  
"We're now out of the ingredients required to make French toast, omelets, and pancakes."  
Molly spooned strawberries onto a saucer, but stopped when Sherlock stood up suddenly.  
"Would you rather we go out for breakfast?" He asked.  
She nodded apologetically and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She reached for a yellow sundress that was draped on an armchair.  
"Oh, and Molly," Sherlock said meditatively "you might not want to go through the kitchen when we leave."


	76. Upset

The prompt was "Sherlock is more shook up about Toby's death than he thought he would be" from the lovely LadyCrow1313.

The cat was a bloody nuisance. He was constantly mewling for food, his silvery hairs stuck to everything, and he had an mind-numbingly irritating habit of curling up on Sherlock's face when he was in his mind palace. Waking up from a state of semi-coma to a face-full of cat hair was less than pleasant. He wasn't upset that Molly had to put the cat down. Was he?

Molly turned from the television program she was watching to find her boyfriend curled in his armchair, making a strange spluttering sound in his sleep. Molly leaned over to shake his arm.

"Sherlock, wake up!"

The detective's eyes snapped open. He rubbed at his face, a mixture of anger and something Molly could only identify as sadness in his eyes.

"I swear that bloody cat is haunting my dreams."

Molly chuckled, prying his legs apart so she could sit between them.

"It's okay. I know you're upset about Toby."

"I most certainly am not!" Sherlock's face was indignant. "Good riddance to that spawn of satan. Maybe I'll actually get to kiss you once in a while without him tearing my face to ribbons."

Molly chuckled at the memory. Toby had been little more than a kitten when she had moved in with Sherlock, and he hadn't been particularly fond of the strange sounds coming from his human. He had taken it upon himself to insure that the new human didn't hurt Molly, which basically turned into forced abstinence for a few months.

"It wasn't funny!" Sherlock said indignantly.

"It really was…"

Sherlock smirked a little mischievously.

"You certainly didn't find it funny in the middle of it…"

Molly smacked his arm and reached for the newspaper.

"There's an advert here for kittens. I'm thinking we should get one."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No!"

"Why not?" Molly was surprised by his vehemence.

"I… I don't think you are over Toby's death…emotionally…"

Molly nodded philosophically.

"Of course…"


	77. Watching Glee

The prompt was "Sherlock attempts to watch Glee to make Molly happy" from the lovely Whenthebirddies. I apologize about the length of time between updates, I have ahead a lot of stuff going on lately.  
Molly pulled her knees up to her chest in a failed attempt to relieve the cramps that wracked her abdomen. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Sherlock standing over her. He sat down next to her on the sofa, and Molly groaned at the sudden jostling. She attempted to move into a more comfortable position, which ended with one leg drawn to her chest and the other thrown over the back of the couch.  
"We tried paracetamol, heating pads, bananas for goodness sake. Is there anything else I can do?" His face was guilty, probably remorse for telling Molly that "cramps were a natural thing, she was obviously exaggerating." Molly smiled at him sheepishly, which quickly turned into a grimace.  
"I can think of one or two things."  
Molly curled tighter into Sherlock's chest and reached for the chocolate on the coffee table.  
"That's Brittany…"  
Sherlock hummed uninterestedly.  
"Obviously a lesbian with the other girl over there. Secretly though… Well actually, I think the blonde is bisexual."  
Molly looked at him quizzically.  
"How in the world did you know that? We're barely five minutes in!"  
"Obvious."  
Molly began to hum and sing in time with the sugary pop tunes. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the actors singing and dancing on the screen.  
"This. Is. Awful! I can't stand it anymore. I can practically hear my brain cells burning." Sherlock groaned.  
He had sat through four episodes of this mindless drivel. He had no idea how anyone could take already rancid pop songs and manage to turn them into something even more pathetic. His eyebrows quirked upward at the lack of response from Molly. In fact, she had been practically motionless for the last two episodes. Sherlock twisted his neck to see that Molly was quite asleep, her mouth hanging slightly open. Wonderful. He had sat through this for nothing.


	78. Attractive

The prompt was "Molly thinks she is no longer attractive after having two kids" from the lovely Freewaygirl.  
Sherlock trudged up the steps to 221B, doing his best to be as quiet as possible. It was late, almost four in the morning, and he knew Molly wouldn't be happy if he woke three month old William. He reached the kitchen door, ready for a few hours alone with tea and his mind palace, when he heard muffled, hiccuping sobs.  
"… I… I don't know any more. How could he find me even somewhat attractive any more? I have a baby belly, constantly am covered in baby powder or baby oil, the smell of baby food clings to everything. It makes me nervous when he's out all night like this. What if he's doing it to get away from me? What if he's out with someone like that Adler woman?"  
Molly ceased talking for a minute.  
"That's because John is John… Sherlock is Sherlock. I guess you're right. Thanks again Mary."  
Sherlock felt a wave of anger wash over him, but he quickly quashed the emotion.  
"You have no idea what you're talking about Mrs Holmes." He spoke almost menacingly.  
Molly turned from where she was slumped on top of the counter.  
"Sherlock? I…I had no idea you were home!"  
Sherlock moved so he was standing between her legs. He wrapped both arms tightly around her waist, growling when she attempted to move away.  
"It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."  
Molly hiccuped quietly. Sherlock smoothed the pad of his thumb across her face, drying away the tears. He leaned forward to kiss her forehead.  
"I think we should go to bed."  
Molly moved to stand, but her knees buckled underneath her. Sherlock wrapped one arm around her back and used the other for leverage at her knees.  
"I love you Molly." He said quietly.


End file.
